


Coat of Gold, Coat of Red (A Lion Still Has Claws)

by VolxdoSioda



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ardyn sets new standards for 'if you can't beat them join them', Cor is Very Suspicious of Noctis, Etro exists in this fic, Family Loyalty, Gen, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Noctis is salty and suffering and ready to go, Regis just wants his son to be happy, glaive!Ardyn, it's a fustercluck honestly, ride or die loyalty, the Hexathon are told to be jerks and grudgingly do so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-08-20 12:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Noctis wakes up again, 16 and untempered. His father is still alive, and somewhere out there in the wider world, Ardyn Izunia is opening his own eyes again.He expects Ardyn to hunt him down, demand answers that he doesn’t have. Answers the Astrals won’t give him - they seem content to remain silent to him now, scorning him as they scorn Ardyn.(Perhaps in the end he wept a little too much for the man he killed, a man that on some level, he came to rely on as much as the others around him. A man that shaped him with violence and ill-will, that taught him his boundaries and just how far he could push them. Perhaps his world grew a little too grey with him gone, and the last fragments of will he had were swept away, his fate solidified.)Instead, Ardyn comes to him dressed in the crimson of an altered Glaive uniform, and bends knee.(If he won’t allowed to die as Noctis’ enemy, he’ll die as his most stalwart defender instead, a Shield crafted from the bones of a Healer-King, broken and forged anew.)





	1. into the woods (it might be all in vain I know, but even so I have to take the journey)

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Adel, who brought the idea to life months ago and I haven't paid her back since.

He wakes again, and that in itself is like it’s own nightmare. He’s had this dream a million times of course, but that was back _then,_ when the wounds of the dead were not so neatly stacked on his shoulders, nor nearly so high, when every breath didn’t taste like regret and sorrow wasn’t threatening to drown him at every turn.

 

But it isn’t a dream. He tests the weight of himself, his body, flicks himself on the nose, smacks himself across the face, bites at his arms, and it’s all real. He’s alive, though not in the crumbled remains of his once-legacy. Instead he is here, back in a room he hasn’t seen since he was sixteen, and when he looks at himself in the mirror it’s once again to a body he barely recognizes as his own.

 

(Was he always this young? This… frail-looking? He looks at the boy in the mirror, and tries to imagine it all from Ardyn’s perspective, that something so _small_ would come after him with a blade, and try to kill him in the end. Something with silky hair, unblemished, soft skin, something that has never known violence or danger apart from a few bad assassination attempts. A blessed child that takes too much for granted.

 

It’s almost laughable. No, it _is_ laughable. He is no King - he’s barely a Prince. Not fit to rule, not fit to do much of anything except drag his feet and be mocked for his weaknesses.)

 

Leaving his rooms to walk to the dining hall reveals the Citadel whole and intact, familiar faces walking the paths outside and the carpets inside in familiar circuits. Everyone greets him, and he tries to remember what smiling is as he numbly raises a hand and nods to each kind word directed at him. He doesn’t want to be cold or rude, but… how is he supposed to deal with this? Being here, again, at the start of it all? Does that mean he failed?

 

And if so, does that mean Ardyn is waking up in his own bed somewhere, to stare at a ceiling he vowed he’d never see again? Is he cursing Noctis’ name, vowing vengeance on him even now? Will the next meeting at the table be with Ardyn’s knife planted between his ribs, poison in his cup, a hushed murmur of ancient spellwork and then nothing but oblivion?

 

He almost relishes the thought, as he rounds the corner, opens the door, and finds his father sitting at the head of the table like nothing’s wrong. And to his perspective, nothing is, most likely. Just his son standing in the doorway like an idiot, staring at him with eyes that probably scream _shell-shock_ and _PTSD_ and _I couldn’t even manage to kill the man who stole everything from me without breaking my own heart._

 

“Noctis?” Regis asks, pausing mid-bite. “Is something wrong?” He’s alert now, a frown starting up on his face, furrow between his brows. Behind and to the right of him, Clarus slowly comes alive, straightening and turning to face Noctis like a stone sentinel. Noctis blinks once, and forces his body to stop screaming _fear_ and push it all the way down to _uncaring, nothing of interest._

 

It should alarm him, just how easy it is. How quick trickery moves through his head like a shadow, how natural it feels to simply slip back into his old skin of _bratty prince._ “Nah, just came to see what everyone was up to.”

 

Regis blinks, caught off guard momentarily, but then he smiles. “Well in that case, how about a quick bite? I’ve a meeting in an hour, but I’d like to hear what’s been going on in the meantime.”

 

A lifetime ago, he would have refused. Would run away citing promises to his friends, leaving his father sitting there, exasperated and fond and hurting in his own way. He wouldn’t know of the mourning he would do later, of the pain such memories would cause him, and the amount of times the question _why didn’t I just_ would cross his head.

 

Now, he shrugs, and moves forward. “Sure. Was fixing to grab a bite anyhow. So, how have meetings been going?”

 

It’s all so easy, and that’s the worst part, Noctis knows. That he can just step back into this life and play it like one of his video games instead of feeling connected to the entire situation. It feels like a fever dream, with none of the actual qualities that let him know it’s a dream, like his dad suddenly turning into a swarm of Killer Queens or the table spontaneously melting into the floorboards.

 

The food tastes like nothing in his mouth, and when his dad rises to the table, something like fear punches him in the chest. “I’ll see you later, son,” Regis says, and ruffles his hair as he goes by, Clarus behind him. Noctis mutely nods long after Regis is gone, and cleans his plate, and then gets up and goes back to his rooms.

 

Suddenly, he’s feeling tired.

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


When Ardyn doesn’t arrive early the next morning in a fit of fury and swords to rain Hell down on Noctis’ life for failing to kill him, Noctis goes to the Crystal for answers. He expects something - another Prophecy, perhaps, or a ‘you failed and this is your punishment’. Maybe Ardyn’s dead and he’s secretly immortal now or something, destined to watch all his family die beneath Niflheim’s steady march across the world. But there has to be something.

 

What there is is nothing. The Gods have seemingly forsaken him, for their voices - even that of the Draconian - ring silent when he touches the Crystal and calls out. He can feel them there, hovering and watching. But they say nothing to him. Say nothing _of_ him. Noctis tries, every word feeling like sandpaper run down his throat, but they remain silent. Cold.

 

_Ignored, like a rude child. Turned away like the Accursed, never to know the ‘why’ of it. Such a pity, isn’t it?_ And the fact that he can hear those words said in Ardyn’s soft tones should worry him, so casually cruel as it rips through him. That… he’s not the Chosen, here. The Gods don’t care, anymore.

 

Maybe that’s a good sign, though, he tries to console himself. Maybe it’s proof he’s done his job, and this is a second chance.

 

Or maybe it’s a sign he’s a failure, and the Gods are so disgusted with him and his human emotions they’ve stricken his bloodline from their blessings.

 

He walks away from the Crystal feeling oddly hurt, disappointed in himself, but also disappointed that in the end, Bahamut wouldn’t at least have the nerve to speak of his failures to his face.

 

He isn’t paying attention to his path as he moves away from the Crystal, and when he finally looks up he finds himself in the training halls, empty of people at the early hour. Unprompted, he summons one of the daggers to hand from the Armiger, and flings it at a far target; the force of the strike rocks the training dummy back, but it falls forward a second later. If he were standing in front of it and not fast enough to dodge, he’d get a nasty smack for his arrogance. As it is, it only further riles whatever the lack of the Gods’ words has woken in him. A kind of fervent desperation, a deep-seated unhappiness he kept pushing down throughout his trials across Eos as Astral after Astral came into his possession, all in the name of him killing one man. A man who is now probably trekking his way across the land on rage alone, coming to throttle him in his sleep and rip him apart for his failures.

 

Before Noctis knows it, one knife turns into multiple; he’s moving without meaning to, his body transitioning itself into the flowing dance of battle. He fights invisible enemies, dodges and hurls weapons, snarls curses beneath his breath when he misses a mark, grits teeth and tells himself _you did better before, now do it_ **_again._ **

 

He isn’t aware he’s being watched until he hears someone clucking their tongue when he misses the heart of yet another target and swears loudly at himself, “ _Damn it, Noctis!”_ Old instincts have him ripping another weapon from the Armiger and warping back, giving himself distance before preparing a throw.

 

Cor’s hand clamps down on his bicep before he completes the maneuver, the tight grip holding him steady. “Easy there,” the older man soothes. “It’s just me.”

 

Noctis lets out the breath that caught in his lungs when Cor caught him, and forces himself to relax. He doesn’t apologize, because he knows that’s the wrong thing to do - you don’t apologize for being taken off-guard or reacting to that. You do better to realize there’s someone in the room next time. He banishes the blade away, and Cor lets him go, stepping back and turning to look at the targets he’s spent the morning hurling blades at.

 

“Isn’t it a bit early for you, Prince Noctis?” he says, and Noctis feels fury well up inside him. Not at Cor, but at _himself,_ once again. _So lazy, Prince Noctis is. So sleepy all the time. Weak little Prince, not fit for much except warming the bed, and most likely not even fit for that._

 

Once again, it’s Ardyn’s silken tones that invade his head, and once again they ignite something inside of him he doesn’t dare put a name to.

 

“Bad dreams,” he says instead. “It helps.”

 

“Who taught you to throw?” Cor asks, stretching out a hand. Into his palm drops the very same blade Noctis banished seconds before. In one fluid movement that turns Noctis nearly green with envy, he breathes in, hurls the blade, striking true dead center, and breathes out, turning right back to Noctis. “I don’t recall seeing that on the list of things Gladio was showing you.”

 

Noctis wraps his tongue around yet another lie. “Ignis,” he says. “I can do better. I’ve done it before.”

 

“Is that so.” Cor looks back at the targets, and summons another knife. This one dances between his fingers however, point and blade caressing the tender flesh between his fingers without severing it. “Last I was aware, Ignis Scientia had not begun his training with the knives. And given I’m the one who teaches the subject to those who are not Glaives, it would make it quite impossible for him to teach you when he hasn’t been taught. So let’s try this again. Who taught you to throw, Prince Noctis?”

 

The blade catches between his first and middle finger, and the throw this time is undeniably vicious; the blade sinks all the way to the hilt into the practice dummy’s pretend heart, but that isn’t the threat. The threat comes when Cor Leonis’ heels click as he turns back to Noctis, all beautiful military precision and lethal grace. There’s a sharpness to his eyes that matches the blade he carries on his hip. Any other time, Noctis would admire it.

 

Now he feels it as keenly as if Leonis had thrust that very blade beneath his neck, and hissed the words in his ear. He tries for something mimicking his old smile, but it falls apart fast, so instead he goes for a rolling shrug. “Nobody you would know. He’s dead now.”

 

That much is true; the Ignis Scientia that dragged him beneath the eaves of a dilapidated gas station and taught him to throw knives at old tires is dead and gone, a thousand years back, gone with the starlight of a universe that apparently doesn’t count for shit.

 

Cor says nothing; perhaps he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, the inevitable breakdown of Noctis’ will beneath the weight of his own. It’s just too bad that Noctis knows himself now, knows all the sharp little edges and rough outlines of the man who holds this body, and he knows the weight of that stare is nothing in comparison to the dead-eyed stares of three men watching him walk to his dead. Men who had once been his brothers, but in that distant darkness, they might as well have been strangers.

 

He wonders if they had a happy ending, at least. If dawn broke and chased away the daemons, and let them live the rest of their lives without a Lucis Caelum to hold responsibility over their souls like a guillotine.

 

“Is that so,” Cor says at last, the softest words heard yet.

 

“I can do better,” Noctis repeats. “I’ve done it before. I just...I need to find the feeling again.”

 

Cor says nothing, his gaze remaining on Noctis as he calls another knife to hand. This time, he flips it over, offers it handle-first to him, blade neatly trapped between scarred fingers. “Stop putting so much force behind your throws. You’re throwing yourself off-balance. And keep eyes on where you’re aiming at all times.”

 

It’s nothing close to surrender. Cor will keep digging until he finds the roots Noctis is trying to conceal, and then he will rip this wound open again, like an eager hound scenting a kill. But for now it’s an armistice, one Noctis takes and uses to throw the dagger.

 

This time, his lands right beside Cor’s, a matching pair of daggers to bury in someone’s flesh.

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


The ill-fitting nature of his supposed second chance lands yet another development before long; Noctis finds staying still for long periods of time impossible. Worse, forcing himself to sit or stand in one spot and not move results in fidgeting. It’s a discovery that appears on the date circled in red on his calendar, when Ignis presses him into a suit and rattles off names and facts in his ear as they walk to the meeting chambers. Regis’ Council is already seated, waiting for the King to appear. Noctis finds himself watching their movements, fluttery and quick as they are, and he has to resist reaching for a blade.

 

The next few hours are an exercise in torture once Regis appears, Clarus lurking dutifully nearby, and Gladio hovering to Noctis’ own right side, a mimicry of his father. Noctis finds he can read people’s body language now, and the amount of casual _lying_ being thrown around sickens him. His hands grip his knees, fingers digging into his kneecaps to keep himself quiet. He drums his fingers against the fabric of his pants, and wishes for something to do.

 

Regis talks, soothes concerns, banishes violence, and beneath him there is a queer sort of power - one that the lies can’t find a grip with. His father knows the ground he walks, evidently, and he knows the vipers that are lying in wait all around him on both sides. He plays the field as neutral as he truly can, and when he can’t play neutral, he aims to strike harder than they possibly can, and leave them reeling.

 

There’s a portion where Noctis can choose to speak - it’s mean to ease the Prince into delegating, having his voice heard in the room. In the past, Noctis would shy away from such moments, content that his father would see to it all. Now however when that moment comes, and Regis says, “Prince Noctis, have you any concerns to add?” Noctis nods and stands.

 

“I do, King Regis. Consul Valerius, if I may have you repeat your statement concerning the collapsed mine shaft down on the eastern end of Duscae?”

 

Valerius is one of his father’s younger Council members, and he tends to treat the sessions as a sort of joke and venting space all in one. Now, Noctis listens as he repeats the report - there was a mine shaft that collapsed with men still inside; when word of a daemon infestation came through, recovery efforts halted, and the men were instead presumed to have died. That Valerius’ take on the situation, at least.

 

Cor’s report however, digs far deeper, and unseats quite a bit more. He doesn’t know why his father hasn’t called the man out for his lies, why the treachery is allowed to take and hold, but Noctis isn’t feeling nearly so lenient anymore. Once, the sleepy Prince of Lucis would have allowed it, but not now. Never again.

 

“So am I to understand recovery efforts were put on hold following the call back that mentioned daemon sightings in the area?”

 

“Yes, Prince Noctis. We did not want to risk any more of our men, and certainly not the miners’ so we urged them to notify the families of those lost in the shaft. A loss we are still feeling.”

 

_Lie,_ Noctis thinks, almost giddy with rage. _You don’t give a shit about anything except lining your own pockets._

 

And that’s where Cor’s report differs from what Valerius is telling. Noctis is going to rip this problem up at the roots, salt the earth, and send a message to the rest that _lies will not be tolerated against their king._

 

“So can you explain then why, after the supposed removal of men from the area, twelve digging machines and a crew of no less than a hundred men were sent in the dead of night to that very area? Why the blockades put up to keep people out of that very shaft were torn down, the hole enlarged to almost twice it’s original size? Because it seems to me if we were aiming to keep people out, that would have the opposite effect.”

 

Valerius’ face rearranges itself into a perfect mask of confused shock. “I’m afraid I can’t, Highness, given I had no idea such a thing had happened.”

 

Noctis stops and looks up at him. Then he smiles, but nobody in the thinks that’s a smile - they see the teeth, and they recognize their Prince has got an ace up his sleeve, and he’s fixing to use it to great effect. Even Regis takes in a breath, leaning back as he waits.

 

“Well that’s curious then, seeing as the machines are listed under _your_ name, paid for with _your own personal funds,_ and the men we spoke with at the dig site agreed to vow under the Draconian’s Sword that _you_ gave them the order to excavate the tunnel.”

 

Valerius’s expression doesn’t change, but his face turns a telling shade of off-white. “Lies, I assure you. Someone must have gotten hold of the bank funds, tried to frame me--”

 

“Except,” Noctis says, turning the paper in his hands over, showing them to the rest of the Council. “We have photographic evidence of your arrival that night.” Two very clear ones, to be precise. Each one with Valerius under the lights of the machines, gesturing and ordering the men to their locations. After giving them a moment to realize what they’re seeing, he steps back and lays the photographs on the arms of his father’s chair. Regis picks them up, his face a mask.

 

“I find it curious what a Consul would want with a mine shaft - at least until I recall a certain interesting fact from history. In times past, that mountain was a source of land wars between a pair of now-dead nations. One was Solheim, who wanted the mountain because it carried a particular ore bearing a very _passionate_ hue of red - the color of fire. The ore was known for being being able to channel magic very well, even hold it if crafted into the correct vessel and tempered with the right additional materials. A hobby Solheim, and now Lucis specializes in.

 

“In the end they never took the mountain, but to this day people want to get their hands on that ore, and on the black market the price of it sits somewhere at about 500k gil a pound. And given the ore is illegal, and the only way to get hands on it is either through its manufactured version - which only the King has access to, or by theft, well. It paints a very _dire_ picture, wouldn’t you say, Consul?”

 

Valerius is furious. He’s trying to hide it, but Ardyn was a far smoother operator than he will ever be.

 

“But perhaps it wasn’t money you were after,” Noctis muses. “After all, there could be other reasons. Like the fact that your sister, a lady by the name of Portia Gellius, was recently brought into Niflheim’s spotlight by discovering a new strain of magic-breaking technologies.”

 

Valerius locks up. Regis sees it, and so does Clarus. Noctis keeps his voice nonchalant as he keeps walking back and forth across the small stage, musing out loud. “Portia Gellius of course, was raised to believe the Empire was the best thing in the world since sliced bread, so she’s in full support of helping the magitek find function in the world. And what a coincidence it is, that the week she gains prestige and honor, you would make a move on that mountain and try to gain access to its depths despite it being _daemon infested.”_

 

He stops, and turns one final time to Valerius. This time, he doesn’t pretend to be playing around. He straightens his back, lifts his chin, and addresses Valerius directly. “I hate men like you most of all, Consul. You think rank means getting away with whatever the fuck you want, with no consequences. You think nobody will stop you. You think you’ll walk off scot-free if you ‘misappropriate’ a few things, smudge the details, claim men died when they didn’t. It’s just a pity for you that my patience for _things_ like you has come to an end.

 

“Those men you swore up and down that were infested and dead? Very much alive, thanks to the Hunters in the region. The miners were wearing protective amulets that let them get through the night, and in the morning they were safely rescued - and not a moment too soon, given I  have no doubt that if you’d found them in that shaft, you’d likely have put a bullet between their brains and made it look like suicide. You’re done, Consul Valerius, and you will never darken Insomnia’s doorstep again. Hell, were it up to me, you wouldn’t make it past the week. I’d throw you into Angelgard and let the spirits take you.”

 

A collective shiver runs through the room. Noctis takes in a deep breath, and lets some of the ragged edges of his temper roll back. “Fortunately for you,” he says softly, and steps back, towards the throne. “It isn’t up to me. Honorable father, I leave the rest to you. My concerns have been addressed. Thank you, Consul Valerius, for your time.”

 

Regis looks him in the eye before he sits, and Noctis sees pride in his gaze, burning as sharply as the cold rage with which he looks to Valerius next. “Guards, arrest this man. The rest of you, this session is now over. Take your leave.”

 

“Damn,” Gladio murmurs. “Good job, Noct.”

 

“Thank you,” he returns, and settles back in his chair, closing his eyes as he listens to the booted feet of the Crownsguard escort Valerius out, followed by the softer steps of the Council as they hastily exit. It’s only when Regis touches the back of his hand that he opens his eyes and looks at his father.

 

“Thank you, Noctis,” he says, and that is both King and father speaking. “You did wonderfully. Cor was right to entrust this to you.”

 

“So it was Cor’s call?”

 

“Indeed. I was made aware of the overall situation, though not given details. He stressed that he wanted me to see your sharpness in action - and I’m glad I did. I know now if anything happens and I can’t be here, you can handle the sessions.”

 

“One thing,” Noctis says, and Regis tilts his head. “When I’m up here, can I _please_ stay on my feet? It bothers me otherwise. Sitting and not… doing anything.”

 

Regis blinks, clearly expecting more. “Of course, son. If that’s how it needs to be for you in the future, then by all means. We’ll keep the chair just in case you need to rest, but by all means, if you want to be on your feet, do so.”

 

“I just didn’t want to seem like I was trying to overshadow you. You know… being on my feet while you sit.”

 

“There have been precedents in the past,” Clarus says softly. “People who couldn’t stay still. You’re well within your rights, Noctis.”

 

He lets out a breath. At least this is one battle he doesn’t have to fight. “Thank you, then. All of you. And Gladio? Thank you for trusting me to do that.”

 

Gladio’s eyebrows shoot up. “You thought I’d shadow you?”

 

“I assumed you’d want to move closer, in case Valerius tried anything. But I promise to you now if there ever comes a time when I assume someone is going to attack me, I would step back.”

 

“I thought as much, honestly. Have some faith in me, Noctis. You’re hardly the first baby King to go getting attacked by his own Council.”

 

“Speaking of,” Clarus reminds them, turning to Regis. “What do you want done with him?”

 

“Send him back to Niflheim, and blacklist his name and family from us,” Regis says coolly. “And while you’re at it, have Cor do some digging into the _rest_ of my Council. If there is one rat, there will be others.”

 

“There is,” Noctis says, and everyone’s gaze moves right back to him. “I could tell as soon as I walked in. Their faces and body language give it away. You’re in a nest of snakes, dad, and it’s not getting any less dangerous.”

 

Regis’ lips press tight, then shakes his head and stands. “I feared as much. I would appreciate details, but those can wait until after dinner. For now, I’m feeling rather peckish. Would you join me, Noctis?” He offers out his hand. “I admit I haven’t seen enough of you lately, and would like to remedy that.”

 

“Of course,” Noctis says, and takes his father’s hand, finding a quiet relief in the warmth and strength of his callused grip. “I feel much the same.”

 

Regis smile reminds him too much of what he’s fighting for this time - Ardyn might kill him, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t secure Regis’ life against Niflheim before that happens.

 

Astrals and fate be damned, he’s going to make sure everyone _lives_ , this time.


	2. got my sights locked on, I can see you breath (then I watched you fall and somebody scream)

He dreams of home that night.

 

Of Insomnia from the hillside on the outskirts, speaking to Cor on the phone as his throat remains tight, locked up with grief _“--locked out, with no way back in!”_

 

_“That makes sense,”_ Cor’s voice says in the dream. And then there’s a crackle of static, and it’s Ardyn’s voice in his ear instead. _“The once helpless and hapless Prince. Is he ready to claim his crown?”_

 

He’s on the road with men that are no longer there, the Regalia whole and intact, a beautiful black gleam beneath the sunlight as they pose against her hood, all smiles and laughter. Then the sky rolls in black, and the Regalia crunches beneath his hands, glass cutting his palms while in the distance the howl of approaching daemons chills his blood. His brothers are gone, walking away from him into the night while he screams out, _“NO, NO, NOT THAT WAY--”_

 

A Red Giant pulls itself from beneath his feet, tugging him down with a hand - he falls screaming into the depths of Ravatogh while the Giant speaks in Ardyn’s voice again, _“YOU THINK TEN YEARS IS A LONG TIME?! It is nothing to me!_ **_I HAVE LIVED IN DARKNESS FOR AGES!”_ **

 

He’s on the steps of Insomnia again, facing Ignis, Gladio and Prompto one final time. They bow, and in the black distance behind them a street light comes on. Ardyn stands there, scourge dripping black from his skin. With a screaming howl he warps forward, and Noctis screams out, rushing forward--

 

His brothers hit the ground, faces young and contorted in pain as Ardyn holds their still-pulsing hearts in his hands and laughs, an echoing cackle that chills Noctis’ body all the way down to his bones. He’s eight now, watching the man that is to be his enemy step over the bodies of his friends - they’re _still alive,_ looking at him with hurt and betrayal in their eyes.

 

**_“Oh little Prince,”_ ** Ardyn croons, sneering as he reaches out a clawed hand towards him - there are too many eyes on his face, too many teeth, and he’s screaming out, begging Bahamut to help, begging his father, someone, _anyone--_ **_“It’s past time for you to go to bed, don’t you think?”_ **

 

His claws dig into Noctis’ chest, through bone and muscle and clamp tight around his heart. He’s screaming even as ichor pours into his body, as the Scourge takes and invades, and Ardyn laughs--

 

He jerks out of bed, hitting the ground hard enough to wind himself, sweat soaking his clothing and hair. Gasping, heart hammering in his chest, which is still whole. His ribs are uncracked, his chest unruptured. Ardyn isn’t looming over him, claws ready to dig into him like a prize roast. It’s just him in his old room beneath the light of a full moon outside his window, the covers of his bed down at the bottom where he kicked them in his dreams.

 

For a long time, Noctis stays on the floor, staring up at the ceiling as the dream replays in his head over and over again. Numbly, he dissects it, breaks it down - his worst fears, all internalized, his doubts, his resignation, his anger… it’s all there. And unsurprisingly, Ardyn is the star of the entire show.

 

Eventually, he rolls over and stumbles to his feet on trembling legs, walking over to his dresser for a change of clothes, and then heading into the bathroom. He turns the hot tap in the shower on full blast, and undresses as he waits for the water to heat. Stepping under it makes him hiss, but the scalding temperature becomes bearable within moments, the heat a silent comfort he has rarely afforded himself.

 

He leans himself against the cold tile of the wall. _You’re here now,_ he tells himself, and forces himself to stop quaking. _You’re here now, and that won’t come to pass. You won’t let it._ He drags in breath after breath, watching the steam rise from beneath him, and reminds himself of all he has endured so far. All he has sacrificed - himself, the people he loves, his kingdom, his own flesh and blood.

 

And he is here now, at the start of it all once more, the slate supposedly wiped clean. He’s not going to waste it. He’s going to get stronger, as strong as he was there at the end of it all, when the only task left was to call on the spirits of the old leaders to cut him down, to take a chunk of their savior’s flesh and insert themselves into the wounds they made.

 

“It won’t come to that, this time,” he whispers into the steam. He pushes off the wall, and reaches for the shampoo. “I’m not going to let it. Never again, Ardyn.”

 

_Indeed?_ He imagines Ardyn saying, hands on hips, head cocked while a serpentine grin plays across his features. _We shall see, Majesty._

 

“Yeah,” he mutters right back, shutting his eyes to avoid the lather. “Yeah we will.”

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


The training grounds are once again silent when Noctis ventures down after his shower, phantoms of his nightmares dogging his heels as he walks. He doesn’t even pause to think about it this time, or who might find him and wonder what has the Prince of Lucis up at 4 in the morning. He summons the Engine Blade and begins to move through his paces, moving, warping and dodging until his muscles burn and sweat covers him once more.

 

He changes weapons, shifting through daggers, greatsword, spear, and guns, relishing in the way each weapon tests him; he forces himself to move faster even against the drag of the greatsword and the spear, to make his shots true even as the guns kick in his hands and the bow makes his arms throb with every arrow he loosens.

 

He doesn’t stop until he starts to hear signs of other moving around beyond the walls of the training grounds, planting the tip of his blade into the soft earth and leaning forward, sweat dripping from his chin as he does. He has a stitch in his side and every muscle burns in a way that he only recalls from the more treacherous hunts, but he’s satisfied. Ready to face the day again. He runs a hand over his face, calling on a bottle of water from the Armiger. He drains that, banishes the bottle, and then calls his sword back, and goes to open the doors.

 

“--you fucking-- _whoa!”_

 

He barely misses hitting a Glaive in the face as he opens the door, the young man hastily stepping back as Drautos turns, eyebrow raised.

 

“Highness?” he asks, surprised. Around him, the Glaives look just as surprised - nobody’s seen him up so early. Noctis raises a brow of his own, turning his head towards Drautos.

 

“Yes, Captain?”

 

Titus then takes Noctis’ appearance in, and seems to grasp this is something he is not prepared to face. He inclines his head. “...A good morning to you. If we might borrow the grounds?”

 

Noctis has to hold back a snort of amusement. There’s no actual question in the man’s tone, but he’s not in the mood to drag Titus in front of his Glaives after yesterday’s meeting. “Do what you will. I’m done.” He steps away, sliding his way between two of the bulkier Glaives and heading back towards the dining room.

 

Behind him, Tredd stares at his retreating back with something like confusion, looking over at his commanding officer. “The hell, sir?”

 

“It is not my business what the Prince does in his own time,” Drautos snaps. “All of you, get in and start warm ups!”

 

It’s only once the recruits are inside that Titus Drautos glances back in the direction the Prince vanished to, and allows some of the uncertainty to show. For the Prince to be awake at such an hour is one thing - he’s had odd days, everyone has.

 

But there was a sharpness to his gaze, the quiet threat of a hidden blade unsheathing itself in preparation for a fight that Drautos has never seen before. And that it was directed at _him_ of all people…

 

He shakes his head after a moment. No, no, he’s being ridiculous. Noctis would never suspect him.

 

“Uh, sir?” One of the younger Glaives’ voices attracts his attention. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do our drills this morning.”

 

Rolling his eyes in disgust, Titus starts into the room.

 

“And why--”

 

And then abruptly, he realizes what he’s seeing, the entire picture of it, and he stops cold. Because the training rooms are usually left battered and broken after the royals come through - it’s why they’ve been designed as sturdy as they have, and why replacement dummies are down in the storage. But this…

 

This wasn’t just a royal testing himself. It looks like a _war_ was waged inside the walls, great severing cuts on the bodies of the dummies, bullet holes riddling their faces beside arrows pulsing with poison, fire, ice, lightning, stone and time. Whole chunks of the targets have been taken off - even the sturdiest targets have not been left unaffected.

 

Titus has lived his life in war. He knows what ordinary violence looks like. This is not it. It isn’t even close.

 

“...back to the barracks, all of you. I’ll summon when the grounds are ready. Dismissed.” He keeps his face and voice neutral, even as Glauca shivers beneath his skin. The Glaives mutter to themselves, but obediently leave, heading back towards their hidey-hole. It’s only once he can no longer hear anyone that Titus allows himself to step forward towards the closest dummy, and close his eyes as he runs fingers across the scored and severed leather.

 

He tries to imagine it, and with the image of Noctis’ piercing blue eyes staring at him, challenging him to _go ahead, say it, I dare you,_ it isn’t hard. But still. What could cause such a reaction, especially one so sudden? First with Consul Valerius - and granted, that was sloppy work, but still - and now with Titus and the training room?

 

Glauca shivers beneath his skin again, but this time it isn’t in eagerness for a fight. It’s in _fear._

 

Because Prince Noctis is hunting, not like a shy royal finding his footing, but like a bold predator that knows weakness when he sees it. Knows when to push, and how to make an example of something. With that in mind, Titus expects the next time he gives lip to the Prince like he did earlier, he won’t be left unscathed. That sharpened tongue will find purchase in his soft underbelly, and he will be made an example of, just as Valerius was.

 

He can’t have that. He drops his hand, opens his eyes, and takes in a shuddering breath.

 

Perhaps it’s time to rethink his place in this war after all.

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


Noctis knows he must be flinging up all kinds of red flags with his recent behavior. Knows by now Cor has made Clarus aware of the _changes_ \- Clarus seeking him out at breakfast tells him as much. The older Shield rarely leaves his father’s side, and even more rarely defers to anyone _but_ Regis,  but now he politely keeps pace with Noctis like he’s the King, rather than the Prince.

 

“Are you feeling alright, Prince Noctis?”

 

“I’m well, Clarus. Is there a reason for your visit besides Cor’s suspicions?” He’s not going to pretend he doesn’t have an idea of why the man is here. And evidently that’s a red flag too, if the slight downturn of Clarus’ lips is anything to go by. “Would it make you feel better if I let you hurl a Remedy at my head, ensure I’m not out of my gourd?” He chuckles darkly as he bites into the sandwich he made from the kitchens.

 

Clarus frowns more at that, but to Noctis’ amusement, pulls such a flask from out of his hip pocket. “With your permission.”

 

Noctis chuckles again. “Bold man. By all means, don’t let me keep you.” He turns his face away so the glass won’t cut - Clarus is still so careful to break it against his skull and let the fluid drip down, soaking the back of his neck and head. It dries just as quickly, leaving him feeling slightly light-headed, but no change besides.

 

“When were you born?” Clarus demands, and _now_ it’s a Shield talking to a possible threat to his King, not his uncle speaking to his nephew.

 

“August 30th, here in Insomnia. My mother went into labor, and my father promptly “dropped everything and rushed to her side”. The Regalia was damaged, and I believe Cid cussed you both out to the moon and back.”

 

Clarus’ eyes narrow. “How do you--”

 

“Cor.”

 

Clarus rolls his eyes, but barrels on. “When did you first meet Ignis, Gladiolus and Prompto?”

 

“Ignis when I was six--” And here he has to take a breath, because he’s suddenly aware of the _lack_ of Ignis he’s seen lately. It hits him hard, and he blinks and sucks in another breath, shaking the odd pain away. “My father knew his uncle - Tobias Scientia, master tactician, wonderful litigator, he passed away two years after that from lung cancer. Ignis always did say he smoked too much for a man his age. Ignis still mourns him.”

 

And that bothers him too; how much went _unseen_ in his previous run, how little in the lives of his supposed brothers’ he’d been. How easily he’d let them lead their own lives, never offering comfort or help even as they’d shouldered their own burdens as well as his for him. The memory of a grief-stricken adviser kneeling before a small personal alter the last time he’d been over at Ignis’ home, how quickly he’d backed away from the door, not wanting to intrude. But he remembers the tenseness of Ignis’ back, how his proud Hand had been slumped forward, shoulders shaking with silent tears.

 

_I should have gone to his side, and held him. Should have thanked Tobias for everything._ That fury burns him now too, but so does a deep sadness rage can’t touch. He wasted _so much time._ So many precious moments that never saw the light of day because he was-- he was _worse_ than a bad Prince. He was no Prince at all, nobody of regal bearing. Nobody worth saving. And they’d all known it, there at the end - that’s why they hadn’t really grieved.

 

Because if Noctis had held any honor in him, he would go to his death willingly. Not intrude on them anymore, not make anyone suffer for him. Not be selfish. He’d known it, they’d known it - they’d wept, but the tears had been as much part of the job as anything. ‘Strangers’, he’d once thought of them - and they had been. People with a chance to live at last, people who there at the end had been forced to deal with their chosen King doing the absolute _bare minimum_ and sacrificing himself to bring back the dawn.

 

He scowls darkly at the boards beneath his feet. _Never again,_ he thinks. “Ignis is the best thing in the world to ever happen to me,” he says out loud, and he means it. “He’s amazing in everything he does, and I’m humbled to have him. I certainly don’t deserve anyone so dedicated - I might one day. But not now.”

 

Clarus makes something that sounds like a scoff. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

 

“He deserves better. An Emperor, not a _Prince.”_ His free hand clenches on the railing, eyes narrowing on the distant horizon. “But I’m going to make myself worthy. Of him, and Gladiolus, and Prompto. I’m not going to fuck this up. Not again.”

 

“...again?”

 

Noctis bites his tongue, and ignores the attempt to dig. “Gladiolus I met when I was eight. He’s been my worst enemy, my best friend, my annoying older brother and the best Shield I could ever possibly find all rolled into one. I hated him at first because all I saw was another stuffy instructor that was following the rules. It wasn’t until the first time he saved me, and I met Iris that I realized he wasn’t just doing his job, and there was more behind him than just being militant-precision.”

 

Clarus shakes his head. “You two are much the same, in that regard. You should have heard him, the first few times he came home after meeting you. If you listened to him talk about you now, you’d never think he was talking about the same person.”

 

Not a terrible surprise - he’s been an absolute brat to the man all his life. Or he was, at least. It’s going to stop now, because Noctis recognizes all the ways he’d fucked Gladiolus over in his last life. Gladio had every right to hate him, there at the end. The train had just been the start of it - the start of the ugly truth that he deserved someone better, an actual _King._ Not Noctis Lucis “sleep in til midday, never do what my friends want to do, whine to go fishing and ignore their advice” Caleum.

 

“I don’t doubt him, now,” Noctis says softly. “Him or his loyalty. You raised a good man, Clarus.”

 

Clarus nods, a silent _I know_. “And Prompto?”

 

Noctis finishes up his sandwich, dusting his hands off. Prompto, wonderful loyal Prompto who had followed him through sheer hell all in the name of friendship. The one that once-upon-a-long-ago had sat up on a hotel roof and confessed how unworthy he felt. How he was fighting every day to prove himself despite the fact that he was wearing Crownsguard fatigues, and had been anointed and welcomed by Gladio and Ignis. Despite the fact that he _did_ belong.

 

But had Noctis proven any of that to him? Proved that he deserved that spot, that he was welcome? No. Instead there had been some soft reassurances - not nearly enough to chase those long-lived demons away, Noctis knows. Right up until the end, Prompto had thought himself unwelcome - and it showed in how they’d all split apart when Noctis was in the Crystal. Nobody had stopped Prompto leaving - and he’d held himself apart there, even at the end. He’d been a soldier, but he hadn’t been doing any of it for Noctis. He’d been doing it for his own freedom. To get away.

 

And in the light of all the chances he’d missed, Noctis couldn’t say he blamed the man.

 

“My best friend since kindergarten,” he says. “Although the way he tells it, it was only since high school. He’s wonderful. I honestly can’t imagine what life would be without him. Or any of them, for that matter.”

 

Not quite the truth. He can - he lived it, once. And it was awful. Because that last camp hadn’t been the ‘goodbye’ - it had been long before that, when Noctis failed to save Luna, failed to put the Ring on, failed to save himself. Lost Ignis his eyes, stopped trusting Gladio’s words, broken Prompto’s spirit. He’d failed them all, and they had replied in turn by living just long enough to serve their roles as weapons and tools of the Lucis Caelums. They had delivered him to Insomnia, to Ardyn, and then they’d turned their backs.

 

Clarus tilts his head, eyes keen on Noctis’ face. “Every time you speak about them,” he says, “you look like you’re remembering something awful. What wounds are you not allowing us to see, Highness?” He reaches out, perhaps to offer comfort, but his hand is left hovering in the space between them as Noctis neatly side steps away.

 

“It’s nothing you need to worry about, Clarus. I’m fine. And I vow to you no matter what suspicions you and Cor hold about me, everything I do is for my father and those I love. You don’t need to think me a threat. I’d sooner put my own blade to my neck than hurt any of them.”

 

“I can believe that,” Clarus says carefully, but he’s still watching his face, trying to find a weakness in the mask. “But that doesn’t mean you need to bear that pain alone. We’re here to help you -- if something has happened--”

 

“It’s nothing, Clarus. Please, just drop it.”

 

His father’s Shield goes quiet, his expression unreadable. Noctis keeps his own face turned away, looking down the empty hallway Clarus has selected for this particular discussion.

 

Eventually, the older man speaks again, and his voice twists a knife in Noctis’ gut for how soft and understanding it is. “As you say, Prince Noctis. Understand that we are here if you need us. You need only ask, and we will lend you whatever aid we can. Believe that, if nothing else.”

 

He bows perfectly, and it leaves Noctis itching to tell him _don’t bow to someone who isn’t worthy of you._ He steps away, and Noctis lets him go, taking in several deep breaths before he turns and heads in the opposite direction.

 

He needs to see Ignis, and Gladio and Prompto, and he needs to start fixing this entire mess. And he still needs to know if Ardyn is even _alive_ \- shouldn’t his enemy be at the gates already? But that might be a little much right now - his resources won’t reach as far as Gralea at any rate anyhow, no matter how powerful his father is. So for right now he needs to work on what he can, and prepare for what he can’t see in the meantime.

 

Either Ardyn will come to him, or he won’t. All he can do is wait and see.

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


Clarus walks away from Noctis, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. But he does it. And he finds Cor waiting in a side hallway, face locked into his usual tired expression. “Well?”

 

The Shield sucks in a deep breath. “You’re right. Something isn’t right about him. But whatever it was, I couldn’t dig it up. The Remedy didn’t change anything - although I did get a hint.”

 

Cor hums. “What was it?”

 

“He said ‘I’m not going to fuck this up. Not again.’”

 

“Not again?”

 

“In those exact words. When I repeated them back, he pretended like he didn’t hear me. Either we have one hell of a mimic on our hands, or something has happened that we aren’t seeing. He speaks kindly of Ignis, Gladio and Prompto, but he got this look on his face like he’s remembering the worst kind of hell when he does. I tried to get him to speak, but he refused even the smallest touch. He’s not acting like the Noctis I know. He’s acting like--”

 

“Like King Regis.”

 

Clarus nods. “His eyes look tired one moment, furious the next. According to Titus, he was at the training room again this morning, and he left it looking like he’d waged war in it.”

 

Cor’s expression darkens. “What I wouldn’t give for the ability to read minds.”

 

“As would I. But he swore a vow he would never harm Regis or anyone he loves. That sounds like Noctis.”

 

“It does, but a convincing mimic would know what kind of words to say to make us stop doubting him.” He appears to think hard on something, fingers stroking over the hilt of his sword as he does. “...I have one last thing I can try. If he’s under the effects of anything the Remedy can’t touch, or if it’s an impostor, it’ll fix it. And if he isn’t, and this _is_ something that’s happened when we weren’t looking, it might work just as well in forcing it to the surface.”

 

Clarus' gaze snaps down to where the sword rests on Cor’s hip. “...you can’t be serious. If someone sees--”

 

“Nobody will see. I’ll make sure Noctis and I are alone when I carry it out. And I’ll make sure I have a spare Phoenix Down on hand, in case the first doesn’t work.”

 

“If this gets back to Regis, or Gladio--”

 

“It won’t. But even if it does, are you really going to tell him that his son is acting like a walking mimic, and we’re letting him get away with it without investigating? He won’t be happy with what we’ve done, but he will understand. If this is a fake, and Noctis is out there somewhere, we need to know so we can find him.”

 

The Shield shakes his head. “And what if it's the second option? What if he’s been hurt, and even this won’t help? What will you do then, Cor?”

 

Cor’s lips tilt into something meant to resemble a smile, were it not quite so grim. “...Death has a way of ripping open wounds, even if time has sealed them up. One way or another, we’ll find out what’s going on. Trust me on this, Clarus. And if it isn’t either of those things, and Noctis is merely growing up, then I’ll apologize and take care of him myself. It’ll be my responsibility one way or another, in the end.”

 

Clarus shakes his head again, but doesn’t argue the point. They’ve both lived long enough to know when something doesn’t click right, and Noctis isn’t even close to clicking anymore. The boy that used to sleep in, whine about training, and shy away from politics or scandal of any kind is suddenly awake before anyone else, willingly going to the grounds to fight the empty air like it’s his worst enemy, and calling Regis’ Council to the floor for their crimes.

 

One way or another, Cor intends to get to the bottom of it all. Even if it means he has to hurt his godson in the process.


	3. they're talking about you, boy ('cause you're a real hero, a real human being)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just as a word of warning - updates might be stilted for a bit, due to the closeness of the Camp Fire from us. Word is the winds are going to pick up to 50 m/h tonight, and while they've got firefighters on standby to prevent the fire jumping the lake, if it _does_ get into the city, we're going to need to evacuate.

Perhaps he should have expected it.

 

In hindsight, Noctis thinks it’s probably the aspect of trust between himself and Cor that allows Cor the upper hand in this situation; even through two lives and an entire army of personal demons, Noctis has never doubted his godfather’s resolve or loyalty. He’s never once thought of Cor’s actions as being ‘too dramatic’ a response to anything that’s happened, because despite whatever stories of his youth Clarus and Regis like to whip out, Cor’s responses have always been level, measured, and calculated, tailored perfectly to match the crime.

 

He’s never been the reckless, impudent youth that Regis talks about sometimes with a fondness that makes Noctis struggle to keep a smile down. Never been the raging spitfire that leapt at enemies that weren’t even hostile just because he wanted to fight it, like Clarus will grumble about. He’s been carefully calculated risk and resulting action since Noctis was first introduced to him so long ago, and Noctis has never lost his respect for that. His admiration, his trust that his godfather knew what he was doing, knew the weight of the lines he was choosing to cross.

 

So even if it results in people getting hurt, in _him_ getting hurt, Noctis knows and trusts that Cor’s actions will be for the good of his father, of the kingdom. Maybe it’s a flaw in his soft heart, that after losing everyone else around him, he still hasn’t learned to distrust the intentions of those closest to his open back.

 

He’s in the training grounds when it happens, newly repaired after the prior day, this time with the added stiff request from Drautos not to completely dismantle it to where his Glaives can’t work later on. The man looked like he was swallowing sour milk while making the request, which is the only real reason Noctis agrees not to do whatever the fuck he wants - because he knows just how bitter it tastes having to swallow pride.

 

It’s the third morning in a row of getting up before the sun rises, the third day of fighting phantoms only he can see, of honing himself to be as sharp as possible to welcome Ardyn. He’s too wrapped up in his head to say when Cor arrives, but when at last he stops to breath, he glances over to find the man watching him quietly, leaning against the wall.

 

“Morning, Marshall.”

 

“Good morning, Highness. Training hard, I see.”

 

“Gotta keep up with dad, don’t I?”

 

He says nothing to that, merely inclines his head. Noctis takes a few swigs from a bottle of water, and then goes right back to his maneuvers. He can feel Cor watching him like a hawk, probably looking for flaws in his movements. He expects to hear the man’s voice calling out suggestions or orders, but it doesn’t happen. It’s only when he begins to warp around the room, pushing his limits just like he does at the end of every session that Cor begins to move across the room in a steady stalk.

 

Noctis touches ground seconds away from stasis, vision blurry as the world re-orients itself. He hauls in a harsh breath, and that’s as far as he gets.

 

Cor is regarded as one of the three finest warriors Lucis has to offer, and there is reason for that. It is in the way he watches Noctis’ patterns across the training room, the way he retains information like the fact that Noctis does his warping _last,_ all the better to push himself, and the way he silently tracks and predicts where Noctis will be when at last he lands.

 

And it is in the way he makes his killing blows - fast, too fast for the target to feel the pain at first. The breath that he hauls in is punched out of him a second later, and it is only because Noctis has felt this sensation before - the sticky-sweet drag of sharpness through tender flesh that he realizes what has happened. He looks down.

 

Cor’s katana juts out of him at a steep angle - he was aiming for a fast kill. Noctis has moments at most before he’s dead. He breathes in, and the world shudders as agony takes - he gasps, gets a hand behind him to shove Cor away, but Cor grips his elbow firm with one hand, his sword with the other, and keeps it in place as Noctis’ legs give out from under him, and he goes sliding to the floor. He can taste blood on the back of his tongue, and some hazy part of his brain informs him he should probably be crying or screaming, struggling, doing something other than just mutely accepting his death.

 

So he turns his head, looking his godfather in the eyes as he rasps, “So, now I have to worry about you as well, Leonis? Never would have pegged you as a traitor.”

 

Cor’s eyes narrow. “This is for the good of the kingdom.”

 

Noctis wheezes out something like a laugh, blood burbling in this throat as he does. “Fine,” he says. And then, with a dying man’s strength he turns himself around and grabs Cor by the lapels of his jacket, dragging him in close, until they’re eye-to-eye. And then Noctis drops the act he’s been wearing and bares his bloody teeth at his godfather. “Kill me if you want. I don’t give a shit. But you won’t fucking touch them, do you hear me, Leonis?”

 

“Touch _who,_ Noctis?” Cor asks softly. He grips Noctis’ shoulder and the handle of his blade, not allowing it to slip out. If he did, Noctis would probably already be dead. But it’s clear Cor wants answers from this encounter.

 

Noctis spits a mouthful of blood away, coughing as he does. It’s oozing down his lips, making a mess. Death is not pretty, like in the movies. It’s ugly and mean and draining. “Regis, and Ignis, and Gladio, and Prompto, and anyone else,” he grits out. “My fucking family, you piece of shit. You want to stage a coup? Be my guest. Gut me like a fucking fish for all I give a damn. But.”  

 

He gets right up in Cor’s face, and lets the wild slew of magic inside him wrap around the man like chains, binding him in ancient oaths and a king’s budding power even as Cor’s eyes widen and he tries to jerk away.

 

“You _do not fucking touch them,_ do you hear me, Leonis?!”

 

He slams the command home with all the fury of Leviathan being awoken, tightening it down and letting the weight drag Cor’s head down. “Immortal or not, I vow that if you hurt them,” he whispers, his strength fading rapidly in the aftermath of exertion, “I will come back, and I will find a way to put you in a grave. I don’t care what it costs me. I won’t lose them again. I sacrificed everything I was last time for the good of all - they will live, this time. Don’t you fucking forget that, Leonis. So don’t...don’t...touch…”

 

His strength is dragged out of him, hands slipping from Cor’s jacket as his body falls back, and this is familiar in a comforting way. He’s died enough times to take it with some sliver of grace, and compared to his last death, the one Cor gives him is damn gentle by comparison.

 

He goes willingly into the blackness, secure in the knowledge that the order he’s laid down will keep - Cor Leonis might overthrow his father and kingdom, but he won’t lay a hand on any of them. They’ll be safe. If it’s the only thing Noctis can do right, then so be it. But he won’t let them be hurt. Never again.

  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

 

Whatever Cor was expecting out of this encounter, this wasn’t it.

 

He was prepared for screaming, for flailing. For accusations of treason, for Noctis trying to call the guards. For having to wrestle his target down after the initial strike. But Noctis doesn’t react like any of that - he doesn’t react like the kid Cor spent so much time hefting onto his hip as a toddler, wiping away tears over little boo-boos and scrapes and scares.

 

He reacts like a _soldier._ Like a man going to his death, a man who understands his time is up, and the only thing left to do is make his peace and fade away. He accuses Cor of staging a coup, which is to be expected, but his priorities after aren’t to get away or find help for himself. Instead, it’s to lock Cor under the weight of his own magic, and demand he never lay a hand on his loved ones. It’s to bare bloody teeth at him like a wild dog and threaten to find a way to come back and kill Cor if he ever lays hands on Regis or any of his boys.

 

Now he lays quiet in Cor’s arms, eyes closed, face peaceful. The blood from his mouth is drying, crusting the sides of his face in a sticky trail, but Cor’s too busy trying to wrap his mind around this particular enigma to be concerned.

 

Nothing about Noctis makes _sense_ anymore.

 

He reacts like a soldier to death. He walks and acts like a King. He trains like a one-man army. He’s scaring everyone around him, acting wildly out of turns and sorts, heaping responsibilities onto his own shoulders that he wouldn’t have dared try to take three days ago.

 

Ignis is concerned - he’s eating vegetables, helping to cook, maintaining his living spaces. He’s gotten rid of almost his entire slew of personal possessions at his apartment, save a few pieces of furniture, his bed, and a stack of books. Gladio’s worried with the amount of training he’s doing, how reckless he’s acting when he throws himself into the spars, appearing not to care about his wounds at all, only about those around him. Prompto’s scared shitless because his best friend doesn’t care about the arcades anymore, finishes his homework before class even ends, and prefers to sit quietly and work his way through reports he’s asked Ignis to start forwarding to _him_ instead of Regis.

 

He still treats them kindly, but his actions are so strange to them. Even the maids and butlers have quietly come to him wondering if Prince Noctis is well - his chambers rarely need the care they used to, anymore. He keeps it nearly as militantly sparse as Cor does with his own chambers.

 

And the way he speaks - he speaks like a man who has lost everything, has seen the worst hell, like he knows what to expect. Like he’s done this all before. Time magic isn’t exactly a lost art, but Cor has yet to hear of time magic being used to send someone back from the future. Hell, even the thought of it seems something better suited to a TV show than reality.

 

But what else _is_ there, short of asking the Astrals themselves? What could possibly turn a 16-year old boy into a soldier in the space of a single night? What trauma could erupt in such a short span of time to warp Noctis into something so callous, so cold?

 

He came here thinking he was dealing with a spy, a mimic in the ranks. He thought the image of Noctis would fade beneath his hands when he plunged that sword in, replaced by a mole, and he’d be sneered at and told _you’ll never find Prince Noctis,_ and that would be that, a nice clean explanation for it all. Noctis wasn’t Noctis because he _wasn’t Noctis._ But he’s holding his godson in his arms, and it’s still Noctis. All of it.

 

But there’s still no explanation behind the _why_ of it. And if Cor brings him back and Noctis refuses to speak, they’re going to be stuck trying to explain to Regis why his son is suddenly playing second King to him. Why suddenly half the Glaives are convinced Noctis has been playing a deliberate fool in public, to drum up Niflheim’s confidence and trip them into making a fatal error in the war. Why Cor and his Crownsguard have a red marker on Noctis’ personal file - a sign that there is a _threat_ in the ranks that needs to be quietly eliminated.

 

The Crownsguard still don’t understand why it’s there. Only Cor and Clarus do, and maybe Titus.

 

He can’t just leave Noctis like this, though. Whatever oddities or strangeness is going on aside, the kingdom still needs its heir. And Cor has sworn an oath to protect the line of Lucis, to protect _Noctis,_ and now Noctis has locked him into vows to keep his hands off Regis and the others. He pulls one of the two Phoenix Feathers out of his coat pocket, picking up one of Noctis’ cold hands in his own and laying the feather in his palm.

 

He made his gamble, and the first part of it he lost. All that’s left to do now is hope somewhere in the second half Noctis is feeling charitable and understanding enough to speak of whatever he’s hiding. He folds delicate fingers over the feathers beneath his own, and forces Noctis’ hand to crush the feather.

 

Crimson flames erupt from the Down to dance across Noctis’ skin. Cor calls his blade back to hand, and the wound dribbles blood for a few moments before being tucked shut by the magic in the feather. Noctis doesn’t jerk or spasm, just hauls in a breath between one moment and the next, his eyes opening, glassy and confused. “...where…”

 

“The Citadel, in the training grounds,” Cor says softly. Noctis sighs, closing his eyes and turning his face away. “You weren’t a spy.”

 

Noctis chuckles. It’s a dark, tired sound, like someone dragging a body across gravel. “No. It would almost be easier if I were. At least then I wouldn’t have failed to die a third time. Six, I really can’t do anything right, can I?”

 

Cor stills, tries to remember to breath. _Answers,_ he thinks. _More answers, more questions._ “You’ve died before, Noctis? How many times?”

 

Noctis shrugs, a tiny shift in his shoulders Cor feels more than sees. “Dunno. Lost count after the first twenty times.”

 

Cor has to bite back a noise of surprise, choosing instead to tighten his hands from where they're laid over Noctis'.  _He’s died over twenty times, and nobody thought to mention it? Who the fuck was there with him? Has he gotten therapy? Has he talked to anyone?_

 

“And then there was the last time - it was supposed to be the last. But I wake up, and I’m _here_ again, but it’s not right. None of it is right. So I have to make it right. All of it.”

 

“What do you mean? Noctis? Talk to me. What do you mean, you’re here but it’s not right?” He’s trying to keep his voice down, keep Noctis in the headspace to talk. If he realizes what Cor is doing, he’s either still too out of it or too tired to care.

 

Noctis looks at him, and--

 

Cor feels his heart stutter. There’s _age_ behind those eyes. A great age, a weight he’s only ever seen in men who have gone out in the furthest wars and come back silent, bearing scars nobody ever sees because they run so deep. Cor has those same eyes. Noctis is sixteen. He shouldn’t have those eyes.

 

“Noctis,” Cor hears himself say. “How old are you?”

 

“...are we counting the now? If we are, I’m forty-six. I missed a lot of birthdays.”

 

_No. No, he has to be lying._

 

“If we aren’t, I’m only thirty. Not quite as bad, but. I really haven’t done much.”

 

_Six, he’s not lying. You’ve always known when he was lying, Leonis, you raised the boy yourself practically and_ **_he is not lying._ **

 

“Noctis,” he says, and this time his voice cracks for the first time in a very long while. He hasn’t felt this unhinged since he was on the road with Regis’ company. “What happened to you?”

 

Noctis sits up. He slumps against the wall, hands pulling away from Cor's to rest on bent knees. He looks at Cor, and Cor sees far too much, and not nearly enough behind those eyes.

 

“I can try to tell you,” Noctis says, and his smile is sad, and more tired than he's ever seen even on Regis' face. “But you’re probably not going to believe me.”

 

“Try,” Cor croaks, moving closer to Noctis, until he’s practically sitting in the boy’s lap. He’ll be ashamed of his presumptions later, but right now he recognizes a fellow traumatized soldier, not his godson, and all he can do is offer a shoulder. “Try, Noctis. Even if it's just a general outline. Please. I want to understand. Clarus, and Titus and I, and Gladio and Ignis and Prompto. Let us help you.”

 

Noctis’ eyes shut. “Alright,” he says, and then drags in a deep breath.

 

Over the course of the next two hours, Noctis talks. And the words that come out from between his lips shouldn’t make sense, shouldn’t be possible. But as he talks, Cor sees it all in his mind’s eye - he sees the boy that once was, twenty and ready to take on the world. He sees the boys in the Regalia, laughing as they head to Galdin, only to hear about the fall of Insomnia the next morning. Regis dies, and Cor tells him to gather the Arms. And then to Lestallum, and further out, far past any borders Noctis has ever known.

 

And then, in a pattern true to most wars, the bad things start happening. And they don’t stop. They just keep coming, one after the next after the next. He sees the way Noctis and his retinue would struggle with it, struggle beneath the weight, until finally they crack down the middle, and Gladio lashes out, and then Ignis and Prompto slip away between his fingers, and even when it seems like everything is patched and okay again it _isn’t,_ the rift is still there, the damage done. Ten years later they all gather around a campfire, pretending like the world isn’t doomed unless Noctis sacrifices himself, like the friendship they shared for so many years isn’t scattered like petals on the wind.

 

And then Noctis leaves to die by himself, and his brothers, his friends _let him go._

 

That’s the part that sticks with Cor even as Noctis trails off, the room silent once more. That these boys would follow Noctis so far, would vow fealty and loyalty and love, and then turn their backs at the end of it all. Would accept the Gods’ word as law - would just let Noctis walk away, and turn their faces towards a dawn unearned by them.

 

He’s not sure whether he’s more furious at their future selves, or more heartbroken about all Noctis has endured right now. He settles for the middle ground of being _seething furious_ at the Gods.

 

“So yeah,” Noctis says, after a long moment. “I don’t have any actual proof, so you know, feel free to ignore--”

 

This is where Cor has heard enough. He’s got it all in his head, and he _knows,_ the same way he knows when trouble is brewing and Regis is in pain, that Noctis isn’t lying about a single goddamned thing. He snatches Noctis up by the front of his jacket, and wraps himself around the younger man in a hug he rarely gives.

 

“You _are_ the proof, Noctis,” he says, voice firm. “There’s nothing else I need besides that - I believe you.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Just like that.” He turns his head, resting his forehead against Noctis’ temple. “You endured unimaginable horrors, trekked through hell and back, stood tall even when the world still wanted its pound of flesh. And now after all that, you still remain unbowed. You still want to keep them all safe. I’m proud of you, Noctis. You’re not going at it alone anymore, alright? Do you understand?”

 

“No,” Noctis says, and he tries to push away from Cor. But Cor is stronger than him here, and holds tight through the squirming. “No, _no,_ I won’t have anyone else--”

 

“Yes,” Cor overrides him. “You will. Because if you think for one second I’m letting you march back out there without being there at your back, you don’t understand things as I do. I’m not going to abandon you to Fate’s whims again, Noctis, the Astrals and Gods be damned.”

 

“But… if there’s another Prophecy--”

 

“Fuck that too,” Cor snaps. “You’re not sacrificing yourself again. Not for any greater good or because some high being said to. I won’t allow it, and neither will anyone else. I don’t give a rat’s ass if our monarchy falls and the people need to govern themselves, but I will not have you go through that again. And I’m going to get my hands on Gladio and wring him about what _loyalty_ means, because apparently his first attempt didn’t grasp it.”

 

“He was doing his job--”

 

“ _His job_ was to protect _you._ To offer you protection and shelter and advice. Not to cast fucking _blame_ on you for Ignis losing his eyes and taking it out on everyone around him. Not to become so emotionally unbalanced that if Clarus were still alive, he’d put his own son down like a rabid beast.”

 

Clarus is still going to want to do that, to some degree. But the men that abandoned Noctis on the steps of the Citadel aren’t here for Cor and Clarus to rage against, to show them what true loyalty looks like. So instead they’ll target the younger versions and make _damn sure_ they understand why they’re here.

 

Noctis isn’t a _job._ He’s a _person,_ and the fact that nobody in that fucking threesome seemed to grasp that past Lunafreya’s death sparks a fury in Cor he rarely feels.

 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Noctis whispers. “I should have just stayed quiet--”

 

“No,” Cor snaps. “No you shouldn’t have. And you never will again - and that’s an _order,_ Noctis. Don’t even think you can pull rank over me with this one, because I won’t allow it. That’s the trade off. You want me to guard Regis and your brothers with my very being? I will. But you tell me the truth. No matter how ugly, how bad it gets, _tell me the truth._ Do you understand?”

 

He doesn’t realize he’s practically shouted the order until the room stops ringing with his words. But Noctis breaths against his chest, whole and alive, eyes wet, and at last, thumps his head against Cor’s chest in a nod.

 

“Yeah,” he sobs. “Yeah, I understand.”

 

Cor tucks his face against Noctis’ hair, and rocks him like he would when he was a child.

 

“Good.”

 

**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


It’s a matter of trust that has Noctis telling Cor the truth, just like it’s trust that allows Cor to get so close to his unprotected back. But by the end of it all, even left emotionally vulnerable and ripped open as he is, Noctis can’t bring himself to regret letting his godfather know the truth. Not really. Because until he was done telling the story, he’s been under the idea that going at it alone is the best - the _only_ \- option he has. And he’s been preparing himself for the eventuality of having to step onto the battlefield alone again.

 

It’s a raw kind of wound that leaves him shaking, even as Cor holds him tight and presses reassurances and praise on him. That he’s been holding himself under the illusion that he _wanted_ to do it alone, when the truth is far closer to his fear of being made once more to do it alone. That the truth would come out, and his father and Cor and Clarus and all his friends would reject it, reject _him,_ telling him _a king must keep moving forward,_ and Noctis would have to smile and nod and go out and do it all over again.

 

He’s held himself under that lie for three days. Cor breaks it in a matter of moments, and it’s the worst feeling in the world, to finally be made free of that.

 

But if he hadn’t, would he have realized it later? If Ardyn had come knocking at the gates and demanded blood, would it have been something he realized seconds before stepping out and fighting the man? Because realizations like that tend to come at the absolute worst times, and there would be no worse time for Noctis than that moment, and he knows it would cripple him.

 

It makes him wonder just what else he’s been telling himself that isn’t true. What other festering wounds he has that he’s passed himself off into believing is nothing worth looking at. Just how fucked up he really is, when all is said and done.

  


If Cor’s approach to the matter of Noctis’ entire situation is an emotional stint, Clarus’ approach the morning after is the suture and bandages to go along with it. The man is straight-backed, utterly no-nonsense as he approaches, and by now Noctis has gained back some of his previous defenses. He’s gone right back to training, to planning for the future, although his motions aren’t nearly as smooth now - Cor’s planted a seed of doubt in him, and firmly placed himself by Noctis’ side and refused to budge. So the defenses are shaky at best, even if he tries to tell himself they’ll hold against whatever Clarus does.

 

Clarus steps close, looks him up and down like he’s assessing Noctis for wounds, and then steps forward and folds him up into an unmistakable hug. Noctis swallows hard, and forces back the tight sensation in his throat. “Oi, what’s this for? Are you missing Regis?”

 

“Cor told me the truth,” Clarus says softly above his head. Noctis can’t help it, he flinches. The Shield sucks in a deep breath, like he’s preparing to drop a bomb. “There are no words to express how… disappointed I am. I’m sorry Gladiolus failed you, Noctis.”

 

_What?_ “He didn’t--”

 

“He _did._ ” And there’s steel in his voice now, enough to quiet Noctis’ objections down. “A Shield’s job is not to play the _hired bodyguard._ We are meant to provide shelter, to hold down the protections placed by the King, and to ensure that you have what you need. Gladiolus did _none_ of those things - instead he cut you down, and then allowed himself to drift like a stranger for ten years under the excuse of bettering himself. He let you walk up those stairs, when he and those two boys should have been with you right up until the end. He failed in the worst way he could have - but he won’t do it again. Not this time.”

 

“It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. If I’d been a better Prince, and actual _proper_ King--”

 

“You were all reeling from the deaths of those you loved,” Clarus says, softer. “And I’ll grant you the blame isn’t placed solely on any one person in a situation like this. But loyalty promised is still loyalty owed. Shedding a few tears while you usher your King to his _death_ is _nothing._ This time, I’m going to make sure that Gladiolus remains at your side, and I’m going to make sure the Astrals understand just where they can put their _Prophecies.”_

 

“They won’t like that,” Noctis mutters.

 

“I don’t much care what they like, Noctis. They’ve taken more than their fair share of flesh from you and yours. They won’t get a second try to do it.”

 

Noctis ducks his head to hide his tears when Clarus pulls away, but the older man puts a hand beneath his chin and forces his head up. “No shame, little warrior,” he says, brushing the wetness off with his knuckles. “You’ve earned the right. More than.”

 

“It doesn’t feel like it. It still feels like a fever dream.”

 

“It likely always will. Until you come to terms with everything, and until you start healing properly, it will feel like a bad dream. You’ll wake from it eventually though - we all do. In the meantime however, my sword and shield are yours to call on. I’ll be there right beside you and Cor when you go to meet Ardyn Izunia again.”

 

Noctis swallows hard. He’s feeling far too unbalanced - it’s not a good sensation. “And dad?”

 

Clarus chuckles darkly. “There’s a reason they call your father the Copycat King, Noctis. It’s because every technique your ancestors have created, he’s perfected. And I guarantee you, he has precisely zero qualms about using those techniques to cut the gods down to size.”


	4. things will be better when you wake up (stay, you're not gonna leave me, this place is right where you need to be)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm laying Regis' characterization squarely at the feet of Saber_Wing, who wrote _fire and fury_ and basically locked Regis' characterization as Secret Badass Dad in. All your fault, Saber. Take responsibility!
> 
> (And in case it wasn't obvious, you should all go read the series for some A+ Regis. Go do it. It's cool, I'll wait.)

“So, who’s going to tell him?”

 

Clarus and Cor stand opposite each other outside of the King’s Chamber doors, grim-faced but sure-footed. Neither one is going to back down from their next step, though they both have good reason to be anxious about the results.

 

Because if hearing what Noctis endured hurt them, it’s going to destroy Regis. Destroy him, light a pyre under the ashes and make him want to raise himself to godhood just so he can have a few thousand words with the Draconian and his brood.

 

Noctis has begged them both not to tell Regis - _“It’s bad enough that you guys know. It’s enough, honest. I’ll just do better, be a better Prince, and things will turn out fine. You’ll see._ \- but neither one of them has any intention of following that line of thinking. Noctis is hurting in all the worst ways, and he doesn’t see it.

 

And in hindsight, towards the end, Cor imagines the other three were much the same. Tired, worn down, bone-weary, ready for things to just _stop_. They didn’t fight because they’d already lost so much, been taught that ‘hope’ was what birthed ‘loss’, and so they stayed quiet and let Noctis walk to his death. It doesn’t excuse their actions, but it offers up a better insight. A group of thirty-somethings quietly walking to their own deaths just doesn’t seem right, until he considers the trauma following them like a ghost.

 

Then it almost makes too much sense, that they would let Noctis walk up those steps alone, would stay to fight demons instead of watching their brother fall to his family’s ancestral blades. Despite the rift sitting between them all like a giant gaping wound, he likes to think they still loved him at the end. He hopes so, at any rate.

 

“You’re his Shield. He’ll take it better coming from you.” And he will, because Regis trusts them both, but he’s known Clarus longer. And Clarus has risked life and limb for him right in front of his eyes, while Cor has traveled and taken to wandering out on the farther missions.

 

Clarus frowns. “I’ve only the secondhand account, however. _You_ heard it directly from Noctis. Regis will value accuracy more than comfort at this stage.”

 

Also true. Regis won’t want to be comforted so much as know the truth of what happened to his boy. And given Noctis doesn’t know they’re _doing this,_ Cor is the next best thing. But Cor also doesn’t want his king having a damned heart attack while he fills him in.

 

“We’ll both go,” he decides. “I’ll talk, you keep His Royal Pain from going off the deep end.”

 

“A sound solution,” Clarus agrees, and together they turn to face the doors.

 

Titus is speaking when they step inside, and he pauses just long enough to glance over and see who it is. “--and the newest Glaive numbers are still too low. We need _more,_ Regis.”

 

Regis nods. “Open the books again, then, and extend our invitation to those outside of Insomnia. Perhaps we’ll catch more that way. Clarus, Cor, what can I help you with?”

 

“Sir,” Cor says as Clarus says, “Regis.” They glance at each other, but continue on.

 

“It concerns Noctis.”

 

Cor can practically see Titus’ ears perk up at that, and has to resist the urge to snort.

 

Regis frowns. “Is he alright? I’ve had Ignis and Gladiolus both ask me if he’s come down with a bug recently, or if something’s changed. And I will admit, his actions are… intense, as of late.”

 

Cor takes in a deep breath, his heart beating double-time in his chest. He glances over at Titus, and then over at Clarus, making eye contact, and raising an eyebrow. _Should he stay?_

 

Clarus gives a little nod. “Drautos, if you could close the doors and ensure there’s nobody here outside the four of us.”

 

Titus gets that same look on his face like he does when they’re about to knuckle down over a map and fine details about the enemy’s movements. There’s a reason he’s held the Glaives as long as he has, and it’s not because he’s gorgeous on a battlefield, cloaked beneath the blood of his enemies. “Of course.”

 

“Clarus? Cor?” Regis asks, and here now is the uncertainty. “ _Is_ Noctis all right?”

 

Clarus waits until Titus comes back and gives him a nod, folding hands behind his back as he assumes a resting position. Only then does he open his mouth, take in a deep breath, and say, “To be perfectly frank, Regis? No. Your little boy isn’t so much a little boy anymore, and he is _far_ from all right.”

 

Cor steps up, and Regis’ eyes land on him, concern and the beginnings of wrath burning through him, and he knows with dead certainty by the time he’s done telling this tale, the Lucis Caelum line will no longer be on the side of protecting the Crystal.

 

Hell, if the damned Crystal’s still in one piece after this discussion, it’s going to be a minor miracle.

 

**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  


He’s standing beside the windows looking out over the garden, Ignis, Gladio and Prompto beside him when it happens.

 

They’re teasing each other - teasing Prompto about his latest crush, teasing Gladio about the recent gossip mag calling him “the hottest thing in leather pants walking the streets of Insomnia” and speculating what kind of relationship he and his Prince have - when the first tremble starts, and it’s only Noctis’ memory of Titan and his headaches from hell that have him feeling it.

 

“Noct? Something wrong?” Ignis asks, taking a step closer, like he thinks Noctis might bolt. Gladio’s frowning, watching him, a hand coming off his arm, lifting like he wants to make a grab for him.

 

“Buddy?” Prompto asks, voice quivering. “Yo, uh, Eos to Noct?”

 

His eyes follow the lines of the wall, and when he leans closer to the glass and looks _down_ at it, he can see it shaking. The Citadel is shaking - not with a natural earthquake though. It’s shaking from _magic._ It takes him a second to realize that, and a second more to feel _who_ is projecting the magic.

 

It’s Regis. Regis - his dad, sweet, honest, loving, a man who has to be pushed pretty damn far to raise his voice at Council meetings, is making their home tremble with the force of his rage. Somewhere in the bowels of the Citadel, his father is _raging,_ and here once again Noctis stands like a child with his thumb up his ass--

 

He stumbles away from his friends, looking down the long hallways. He can see it now, feel it more clearly. Why is he _here?_

 

A hand grips his shoulder, but he shoves it off and starts walking. He needs to move. He needs--

 

More hands, and raised voices. Ignis is saying something, but he ignores it. _Not now,_ he thinks, and shoves Gladio aside when the man tries to physically block him. He grunts as he hits the wall, and Prompto’s head turns towards him, eyes wide.

 

“Noct?!”

 

He can hear Ardyn in his head again, see the sneer on the man’s face, feel the venom dripping off of every word.

 

**_“When your father died, you were off playing with your friends!”_ **

 

“No,” Noctis whispers, and at once it’s all too much, everything overwhelming him, the sensation of his father’s magic, howling retribution in the back of his mind as his own fury skitters through his blood like a parasite. “I swore never again and I meant it! This won’t happen again! I won’t let it!”

 

“Noctis?!”

 

He hears Ignis’ voice yelling, but it’s faint, so faint now, beneath the wave of rage. He’s on his feet, dashing through the Citadel before he’s aware of it, moving closer to the source of the shaking, which is steadily getting worse now. He hears Gladio and Prompto and Ignis coming after him, calling his name, but they don’t matter, nothing matters but his father, because he swore never again--

 

He pulls every strand of magic he has in him, calls every weapon to his Armiger, orders his body _faster, you need to go faster!_ He pushes and pushes and at last he’s outside the windows to the Chamber, and he doesn’t think twice, just calls the Engine Blade to hand and hurls himself through the window, the glass papercuts in comparison to what he sees before him.

 

Three men stand before his father, and Regis is on his feet. Noctis hears their voices, muffled beneath the screaming in his head, the _help me help me_ only he can hear. He doesn’t even think - this is what he’s trained for, what he’s pushed himself for, for this moment when Ardyn would try something, and now he means to stop this. His father will live. They will all live.

 

One of the men sees him, but he warps, and slams the butt of his blade into the man’s head, downing him. The other two turn as Regis cries out, and Noctis is a _blur_ as he calls his Greatsword to hand and goes for the other two.

 

He will protect his father, or he will die trying.

 

One wields a katana, the other a greatsword like himself, but they work together. Even as Noctis swings at one, the other nettles him from the side, drawing his attention back to them. He shifts through weapons, warps from one end of the room to the other, bouncing between them like a ball, breaking their guards and striking flesh, but every time he’s drawn back, away from one to fight the other.

 

The doors burst open, and three more appear - more warriors, more fighters, more bodies to the slaughter. Noctis snarls, and prepares to warp again, calling his Engine Blade to hand, but the one with the greatsword snatches him when his back is turned, hooking his arms behind Noctis’s head and holding him secure as he screams fury. He yells something to the three, who don’t run forward with weapons drawn like Noctis expects, but the one with the knives pushes the other two back, shaking his head. He’s young, and he looks scared.

 

_Easy prey,_ his mind hisses, and then the one with the katana is there, grabbing his legs and stilling him, speaking words Noctis doesn’t understand as he comes forward, and his father is still standing there, still vulnerable _and where are Clarus and Cor--_

 

The doors shut, and the windows are shuttered, even the one Noctis broke through to get in here, and then the one with the katana and the greatsword lower him to the ground, and the one with the katana begins to speak very softly to him, murmuring a name - _Noctis_ \- over and over again, and there’s something plucking at his magic, trying to get him to pay attention to it - _a leech, syphoning off my power?_ \- and he fights that too, even as he keeps fighting against the steel arms holding him tight, refusing to let him go. He tries to bash his head against the chin of the one holding him, but he neatly dodges the blow, expression grim as he does.

 

_Come back, Noctis. Come back. It’s all right, you’re safe - Regis is safe. I swore a vow to you, didn’t I? It’s all right now, there’s no threat, no danger. Come back._

 

Lies. These men _are_ the threat--

 

_I know it’s hard. But you must come back. You father has need of you yet - would you leave him to suffer alone? To bear the burdens of the kingdom by himself? Come back, Noctis. Leave the war fields behind, and come home._

 

Regis is still vulnerable, still standing there. He’s drawn closer, and Noctis kicks out, trying to knock the men aside before they see Regis - Noctis can’t protect him like this. He needs to get _out._

 

_You know the paths you walk - you walked so many miles, stood so tall against your enemies. Don’t crumble now, little warrior. Come back home. Here to Insomnia. Come home, Noctis. That’s an order._

 

Home? But home is _gone,_ buried beneath miles of ash and destruction and--

 

**_The hillside again, phone pressed to his ear, something like terror running through his veins as he screams at Cor, “What about_ ** _any of this_ **_makes_ ** _sense?!_ **_”_ **

 

**_“No way back” Prompto says in the car. “Only way now is forward.”_ **

 

**_“No going back” Noctis whispers to himself, and forces the grief down, thinks_ ** _they need a King, not a Prince_ **_and says, “Let’s go.”_ **

 

He breathes, and it feels like he’s finally coming up for air after being beneath the water for ages. Cold, jerking him out of the nightmares in his head, a sharp touch of reality. He’s not back there, on top of a hill overlooking Insomnia’s smoking ruins. He’s here, sixteen again, held securely between Cor and Clarus, Cor drawing him back to the now with soft words. Regis isn’t in danger. Titus is… hopefully unconscious. Ignis, Gladio and Prompto are over by the doors, pale-faced and worried.

 

He takes in a deep breath, and stops fighting. “I’m here,” he says, and his voice comes out a hoarse croak.  “Is he alive?”

 

“Unconscious,” Clarus says. “I’m trusting your word on this.” And he lets go of Noctis slowly, like he’s prepared to snatch him back up. But all Noctis does is sag against his own knees, exhaustion draining him. Now that he’s in the right headspace, he can feel the faint nausea that comes from over-doing his warping hitting him, and the trembling of muscles that follows stasis. He could fall asleep just like this, but Cor doesn’t let him.

 

“Come along, on your feet now.” He hooks a hand through one of Noctis’ arms, the other grabbing his belt loop, and helps him stand. He stays there as Noctis puts weight on shaky legs, and manages to get himself to stay upright. “Clarus, see if you can’t get Titus back up. The rest of you, fall in.”

 

Noctis looks up, wincing at the sight of his friends cautiously moving towards him. Ignis is at a steady prowl, and Gladio’s watching him with the keen eyes of a Shield ready to move. Prompto is sharply keeping back, knowing he can’t move fast enough if Noctis goes back under.

 

Smart. Noctis runs a hand over his face.

 

“Not the way I wanted this to go,” he says to Cor. “Not even close.”

 

“I can imagine,” Cor says softly. “Where did you go?”

 

“The hill. Yelling at you, again. Prompto brought me back.”

 

“Eh?!” Prompto starts, Gladio and Ignis both looking at him. “B-but I didn’t do anything?”

 

“Not you,” Noctis says, his brain still too fried to realize what he’s doing. “Your other self.”

 

A moment later the silence has him looking up, and he thinks about what he just said. Closes his eyes, bows his head and snaps out. “ _Fuck.”_

 

“So,” Regis’ voice comes directly behind him, low and neutral, and it’s only Cor’s hands on him that stop him calling the Engine Blade back to hand as he whirls. “It is true, then.”

 

Regis' voice might pretend calm, but his expression has none of that. Noctis feels the blood drain from his face, and whirls back on Cor. “You _told_ him?!”

 

“He had to be made aware,” Cor says, standing firm now. “He was worried, Noctis. They all were.”

 

“And I told you it was _fine!_ I’m handling it!”

 

“Are you?” Clarus demands, jerking his attention back to the older Shield. “Is that what you call busting through a pane of glass while seeing the ghosts of the past, Noctis? Is that _handling_ it?”

 

“Yes,” Noctis snarls, feeling a queasy sense of anxiety rush through him. “Because anyone who upsets my father enough that he _rattles the fucking Citadel_ with rage is clearly in need of me putting a sword through them.”

 

“Now who’s turning traitor?” Cor asks lightly. “Striking down your father’s primary protectors out of misplaced instinct will do you no favors, Noctis. And telling yourself you’re not straining beneath the burden of the memories isn’t either. Stop trying to hold the world on your shoulders - you’re not _Titan.”_

 

They’re haring him again, he thinks. Just like before. One strikes, the other nettles. He can't fight them like this. He needs to retreat.

 

He scoffs, steps back, away. "Well why the hell not? You certainly made it apparent you weren’t willing to lift a goddamned finger to help me before. Why should now be any different? In fact, why don’t I save you all the trouble, and pack up my shit, and _go?”_

 

He turns, striding for the doors. He doesn’t even make it two steps when his father’s voice rings out, and there is nothing of the gentle man he’s known from childhood, only the unyielding demands of his _King._

 

“Noctis Lucis Caelum, you will halt your steps and _turn.”_

 

There’s a ringing _snap_ through his familial magic, and Noctis half-jerks to a stop, shuddering as his father’s power surges through the Armiger, aimed straight for him like an arrow loosed. He growls beneath his breath as he turns back to face his father, whose hand is clutching his cane tight enough that his knuckles have gone white. There isn't even a pretense of neutrality in him anymore - Regis is incensed, enraged, and it shows. Noctis meets those violet-tinged eyes with his own, defiance lighting his blood.

 

“You dare,” Regis says softly, “Turn your back on me when I see your wounds? You think I will let you leave here dripping blood and memory on my doorstep? My own flesh and blood?”

 

“It isn’t your place!” Noctis hisses, and jerks as the magic sings through him, merciless as a noose around his neck. “The ruination is mine to bear, not yours!”

 

Lightning jumps from the tips of his father’s fingers as he descends the steps of the dais, and those terrible eyes remain locked onto Noctis’ own blue. He should be afraid. He should be terrified. But the rage obscures everything - rage, and the all-consuming need to keep this man safe above all else. Even from himself.

 

“So,” Regis whispers. “You confess the Gods have broken you. And yet still you would persist that it is not my cross to bear? You are my child, Noctis. My sun, moon and stars. I would bend time and space for you. I would break every barrier, erase any line, to see you live and breathe. It is not your decision what I should and should not come to bear. And with Etro herself as my witness _I will not let you leave this room as the broken shell you are._ ”

 

Noctis grits his teeth as the magic pulses through him, Regis' strength and power running over him like ocean waves in a storm, until he can barely feel his own connection to the Crystal. Against the weight of the days’ events, his body refuses to hold, and his legs drop him, head bowed, before his father as Regis steps ever closer. Even as he fights, it’s a lost struggle. Mentally he might retain knowledge of what he once was, but his body isn’t the same, and the gap in experience is far too great to overcome.

 

“Child or not,” he manages to get out. “I won’t suffer your death. Not _again._ You destroyed me when you died, and I was told I needed to push past all of that, that a King never looked back. I won’t be that lackluster bag of walking _waste_ I was last time, Regis. Even if you chain me in the darkest dungeon we have, that will not change. Even if I have to burn everything to the _fucking ground,_ you will _live.”_

 

“Oh, of that, we are most certainly in agreement.” Regis kneels before him, mouth a firm line as he lays his cane down so he can cup his son's face between his hands. Noctis meets his eyes again, muscles locked tight in preparation for the fallout. “I will live long yet, if only to see your safety secured. But I won’t allow you to twist and break yourself further for your own plots either, my Prince. You will remain here, and you will heal, and come out stronger for it. Even if I must spoon-feed you that strength from my own body, it will be done. There is no other path available to you from this point on. And if it should cross your mind to flee, remember what I said before. I will face armies to see you home and safe, if that’s what it takes.”

 

“Your body--”

 

“Will hold.” Regis’ eyes narrow. “Because I will it so. Just because I _look_ doesn’t mean I _am,_ Noctis. Were I to take the Ring off, drop the Wall, and dedicate myself to the finest healers in the land, chances are I could repair much of what has been damaged. I choose to hold the Wall to keep my people safe. Though in the face of what I have been told, I assure you that will soon be rectified.”

 

“You would punish our people for my hubris?”

 

“No. I would punish the Gods for their insult.” He pulls Noctis to his chest in a hug that Noctis can't stop himself melting into. “But before any of that, you are going to tell your friends the same thing you told Cor. And then we are going to sit down and devise what it will take to fix this so that it never happens again.”

 

“If Bahamut--”

 

“Bahamut?” Regis asks, and _now_ Noctis shivers in his father’s grip. “You needn’t worry about the Draconian. I will handle the Gods.”

 

“They’ll kill you,” Noctis gasps, and tries to jerk away. But for once his father’s strength is present, and so all he succeeds in doing is wiggling about.

 

“No,” Regis says far too calmly, standing and taking Noctis with him. “They won’t.  Cor, Clarus, I leave Noctis to you. Take him back to his rooms, get him situated. Ignis, Gladiolus, Prompto, from this point forward you are not to leave my son’s side. Noctis, tell them, or I will have Cor do it instead.”

 

“Then have Cor do it!” Noctis spits. “Everyone else seems to be content to go behind my back and disobey my wishes, why not complete the circle?”

 

“Yes, how dare we wish to see you safe and happy. Truly, I should have us all locked up for treason,” Regis replies, dry as dust. “Cor, Clarus, if you would.”

 

“We’ll get them up to speed.” Cor hooks an arm through Noctis’ left, Clarus on his right. “Come along pup, you’ve made enough waves for one day.”

 

“Oh go fuck yourself,” Noctis snarls. “Gods-damned traitor.”

 

“Yes, but I’m your traitor, so it makes all the difference. Ignis, Prompto, with me. Unless Prompto would prefer to remain with Gladio for the discussions?”

 

“I-I’m fine with anything, sir!” Prompto stammers.

 

Ignis pushes up his glasses. “He’ll remain with me.”

 

“Probably for the best,” Clarus agrees. “Gladiolus’ temper won’t hold well after this.”

 

“If what I’ve seen is any indication?” Gladio asks darkly. “Yeah, no. Go with Ignis, Prom.”

 

“Traitors,” Noctis mutters as they leave the throne room. “Every last one of you.”

  


**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

  


Regis watches his son be frog-marched out of the room, and feels the particular curl of violence come back to him. “Titus,” he calls. The man snaps to attention, feeling the hum of chaotic energy between their bond. “Open the Glaive trials. Extend them to all. By the time they’re over, I want there to be enough for Noctis to choose his own.”

 

Titus’ mouth drops open a little. “He… yes sir. I will see to it. Should…”

 

“Speak, Drautos.”

 

Titus draws in a deep breath. “Will he hold court with you as a co-ruler, sir?”

 

It’s an option, now. Certainly within Noctis’ limits. But right now, Regis isn’t feeling charitable towards putting his son to the wolves. Right now, he wants the Gods’ heads on a platter, and he wants that damnable Crystal in shards at his feet. He wants to wage war.

 

He wants Noctis safe, as safe as he can get him. And right now, that means keeping him locked up tight, until he can get it through his son’s head that he has no intentions of letting his plans unfurl the way he wants. He doesn’t intend to be the docile old man sitting up at his castle, waiting for his son to save him. His son has paid his price.

 

Now it is Regis’ turn to be the guardian at the gate, the threat in the crowd, and is nothing if not well-versed in all of that.

 

“Treat him with respect, but title him with Prince still. We will deal with the intricacies of _that_ dance at a later date.”

 

“Understood sir. Would you prefer I transfer some of our finer Glaives to the Prince’s service for now?”

 

“Wait until after the trials. Then we will see what we can build from our ranks. Dismissed.”

 

“Sir.” He bows sharply, and leaves.

 

In the quiet of the chamber, Regis raises his gaze to the distant light of the Crystal, and narrows his gaze. “You will pay for what you’ve done to him,” he says. “Every last one of you. Every drop of blood, every ounce of suffering will be paid in full by the time I am done. _That_ I will vow.”

 

He flexes his hands, curling his lip at the sight of the golden knee brace. Once, it would have merely annoyed him. Now he loathes it, because it makes him a weakness. There is no place for softness now. Now he must be king and guardian and unyielding shadow to his son, who is determined to suffer again.

 

For that however, he needs this body to work _with,_ not _against_ him. There is still one person that he trusts with that task even after all these years. Pride is nothing in the face of what he’s determined to see happen, and so he dials the number burned into memory without an ounce of hesitation.

 

Though the man has made it apparent he wants no contact, he picks up on the third ring.

 

_“...Regis.”_

 

“Weskham. I would ask for your ear, and beg your forgiveness. If you want me to grovel, I will. But not now.”

 

_“I haven’t heard you sound this intense since… well, it’s been a while. Fine. I’ll grant you a chance to plead your case. And there will be groveling. Tell me what’s happened to make you sound so furious.”_

 

“It’s a long story. You won’t believe me unless you come home.”

 

_“Home is--”_

 

“Here, by my side, Wesk. Please.”

 

_“...I’ll be on the next boat to Insomnia. This had better be worth my time, Regis, or you won’t live to see the next dawn.”_

 

Regis chuckles. “Duly noted.”


	5. when all you gotta keep is strong, move along, move along (right back what is wrong, we move along)

 

“So… that is how you would end it.”

 

It feels like waking up after a nightmare that refused to end. The ground is soft and warm, the pain in his body nothing but a faint memory. Even as his bad leg crumples and Noctis banishes his blades back into the Armiger and comes to kneel by him, Ardyn can’t bring himself to do more than blink up at the boy. 

 

“It is over now, Highness,” he sighs, grateful. He looks up, and oh, are those  _ tears?  _ For him? How delightful. But then, they’ve both dug their roots a little too deep into each other here, at the end. Become touchstones for each other, waypoints in the dark of Eos. It makes sense that after all he has endured, Noctis would wind up crying over Ardyn too. “What will you do now? Erase me from history once more?”

 

He can see the answer in the boy’s eyes even before he finishes the question. He wouldn’t fault Noctis for erasing him - he’s earned that much, through all the suffering he’s caused. Somnus certainly did as much, after the Scourge came into play. He looks a little like Somnus now, his Noctis, tears in his gaze, his size and power no longer that of a king, but a Lucis Caelum stubbornly on his feet even after getting hurt in all the worst ways.

 

Were that Ardyn still a good man to him, this would be the part to take Noctis under wing and soothe him. Rock him like he did when Somnus was little, soothe back the terrors and tears until all is peaceful again. But there hasn’t been anything good about Ardyn in well over a century, and he doubts even hurting like he is, Noctis would allow such contact. Or that Ardyn could even get his arms up around the lad to deliver on the promise of comfort, meager as it might be.

 

_ Problems for later,  _ he tells himself as Noctis reaches for him, something close to desperation in those eyes.

 

“No. This time… you can rest.” His throat clicks as he swallows and  _ oh,  _ he really has harmed his boy, hasn’t he? Dug far too deep, disturbed soil that was not ready for foreign growth yet. He’s left his marks, without doubt. They both have. “Close your eyes, forevermore.”

 

Such kind words, even in the face of barely holding it together.  _ Precious child.  _ “Then I will await you, in the beyond.” He closes his eyes, and breathes in one last time.

 

Noctis has gotten them this far. The least he can do is lead his boy the rest of the way home.

 

**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

 

The Scourge fights - because of course it does, bane of humanity that it is - and even hurting, wanting death to come sweeping him aside, Noctis drags the miserable creature down and out for good with the help of the previous rulers. Somnus is there too, and Ardyn feels his wrath come down especially hard, a muted, helpless kind of fury that has him smiling even as he disintegrates. He reaches for Noctis, only to pull short when he finds Noctis is already gone in a shower of sparks.

 

Already at the side of his Lady Lunafreya and Regis, without doubt. Just as it should be. He closes his own eyes, and lets the darkness drag him back down. He’s so tired. 

 

But just as before, something stops him. It feels like he hits a wall, and suddenly he is whole within the Astralsphere once more. 

 

“No,” he whispers, because it can’t be - the Prophecy  _ swore  _ this would the last time, that if Noctis brought them both down, they would be allowed to rest. No more fighting, no more eternal walks -- that’s it, game, set and  _ match.  _ Yet here he is! “No, you can’t do this! Bahamut, I demand answers! Get your scaly hide out here, and--”

 

“Yelling won’t do you any good. He can’t hear you.”

 

A voice he hasn’t heard in centuries. Ardyn turns, and there his baby brother is, minus the usual battle armor his statues like to depict him in. Dressed down in his softer clothes from when they were both young men of status rather than action, blue eyes alight with pain, expression folded in on itself. Unsure, preparing to be rebuked harshly by his older brother. It’s an expression that Ardyn recalls only too easily, given the numerous fights they’ve had over the years. 

 

In ninety-nine percent of those fights, Ardyn was usually right about something or other. But proud Somnus always had to find that out the hard way, and it usually ended like this, with Somnus walking up to him looking like a man walking to his execution. He hesitates, just as before, long enough for Ardyn to put his hands on his hips. 

 

Oh, how fast they fall back into routine. 

 

“Ardyn?”

 

It’s been two thousand years of pain and anger and hatred at a younger brother who scorned him when the Gods came calling. The anger is still there, as is the hurt, but it’s clear to Ardyn that Somnus has suffered too in his absence. There’s no small amount of guilt on his face, and the tuck of his shoulders and the way he holds himself says he’s in need of a good hug. 

 

He sighs, Somnus flinching at the sound, before he patiently holds his arms out in silent permission for said hug. “Heavens help me, I’ve a fool for a brother.”

 

Somnus gives a broken little sob and slams into him hard enough to nearly knock him off his feet, babbling “ _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”  _ as he clings on to Ardyn like a tick on a horse. Two thousand years of pain and anger on Ardyn’s end, and doubt and blame and self-hatred on Somnus’. 

 

His baby brother never  _ was  _ very good at hurting people. Or holding a grudge. Unlike Ardyn, who perfected both of those in no small amount of time. And now he does for Somnus what he wasn’t allowed to do for Noctis, holding him close and rocking him as he breaks down, still whispering apologies into Ardyn’s chest, as if he’s really committed a crime so heinous he knows Ardyn will not forgive him. 

 

But then again, he’s been trapped by himself these past two thousand years, waiting for the Chosen King as much as Ardyn himself has. He probably  _ does  _ think that. He’s certainly had time to wind himself up. Ardyn wasn’t lying when he used to complain at their mother that Somnus was born with twice the emotions, but no brains between his ears. It’s probably why he and Noctis grew so tightly tangled even being the enemies they were - because Noctis was too much like Somnus. All emotion, but no outlets. It’s part of what made him so easy to manipulate.

 

He presses light kisses along the crown of Somnus’ head, murmuring reassurances as his brother runs through his emotional gauntlet, and when at last his sobbing quiets down to sniffles and he’s not clinging quite so tightly, Ardyn finally asks, “Somn, why am I here? I thought we were done this time.”

 

Somnus sniffles a little more before answering. “You are. Kind of. It’s not you, this time though. It’s him. Your boy.”

 

“ _ My  _ boy?” How flattering that he’s not the only one to see that. Somnus rolls his eyes and pokes him in the stomach.

 

“I watched you with him. You teased him as much as you tortured him, so yeah. But it’s also not the Draconian calling the shots this time. It’s Etro.”

 

Ardyn hisses in a sharp breath. “And pray tell what does the Dark Mother want with him?” Noctis certainly isn’t impure enough to attract the Dark Mother’s hand of justice, and he hasn’t been tempering himself with spells of Death, last Ardyn checked.

 

Somnus shakes his head. “He was meant to go back into the cycle with you. I would meet you here, and Regis would meet him with Luna, and you two would have your memories erased and go back, because Etro wanted to give you a good life to balance out the suffering the Draconian put you through. Plus the whole bit about ‘souls bound together by prophecy cannot be easily parted’. But you two were supposed to be  _ happy.  _ That was the plan, at least.”

 

“And I take it the plan has gone wayward a fair bit.”

 

His brother’s mouth trembles, and for a second Ardyn thinks a wave of fresh tears are on their way. “He’s in so much  _ pain,  _ Ardyn. Etro tried to call him back into her embrace, but he just… ignored her. Or he couldn’t hear her, we can’t tell. Lunafreya tried, and even Regis. Even  _ I  _ tried, but his soul started drifting. The only thing Etro could do was guide him back to a lighter point on the timeline, before all the madness started. He’s… he’s like that broken mirror of Mother’s when we were little. Before Father added in the gold. Jagged shards and sharp edges.”

 

Ardyn remembers that mirror. Remembers how he used to admire that sharpness, how even cracked and broken like it was, there was a particular beauty to it. At least so long as you kept your hands back and didn’t try to touch the glass. 

 

“So you would like that I… what? Call him back and heal him?” He’s not entire sure that would work. Healing is a tricky art on the body. But on the soul? Would that even work here?

 

Somnus makes a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Actually, Etro was hoping you would be willing to…go back. Again. One more time.”

 

Ardyn blinks. Processes the question. Sticks a finger in his ear, wiggles it around, then cups a hand around that and says, “Sorry, my hearing must finally be catching up with my age. I  _ know  _ you didn’t just say that. Try again?”

 

Somnus groans. “Look, I know it isn’t fair, okay? Not to you, not after all you’ve done. But it’s not fair to him either! He’s a kid, Ardyn, and he’s scared and hurting. It’d be like… like leaving me in the wilds of the forest after dark.”

 

“I would never,” Ardyn says, affronted. He’d sooner chew his own arm off.

 

“Okay then, so why would you leave Noctis behind? He’s a literal  _ baby  _ compared to you, and I know you like him. Just think of him as another baby brother you need to protect. Especially from himself.”

 

That’s… a completely sound tactic, but also  _ completely unfair  _ because if there’s one spot Ardyn is weak in, it’s his protective instinct where family is concerned. He squints at Somnus. “Who taught you tactics while I was gone? And emotional manipulation?”

 

Somnus huffs. “You did, by being an ass to a child instead of helping him. Which brings me to my next point - you broke him, you fix him.”

 

...Another sound point. He  _ did  _ do quite a lot of damage to darling Noctis’ spirit. But then, that was the point at the time. Enemies, war, yadda yadda, such and such. 

 

“And you’re certain sending  _ me  _ to his side is a glorious idea? He won’t be happy to see me.”

 

“No, but you’re the one bound to him. You two feed off each other, as much as you might claim otherwise. You’re the only reason he lasted as long as he did, so we’re hoping this time if we send you to him as protector rather than enemy, he’ll start to heal. Etro’s vowed Bahamut and the others to silence - they’re chafing at the  _ bit  _ to get to him.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“They want to bless him. Make his life better. He did no small thing for them, killing the Infernian and setting it up to let them destroy the Scourge. They want to help him, but Etro’s determined to have this done her way this time. You should have seen it, Ardyn. Noctis went before the Crystal looking for answers. About why he was alive, where you were. When they didn’t say anything…”

 

Ardyn grimaces. Yes, he can imagine it now. It’s not a pretty picture. “You’re certainly not making my work easy for me. I can’t promise anything.”

 

“Try,” Somnus begs. “That’s all I ask, brother. It’s all I’ve ever asked. Just try. And if… if he can’t heal… we’ll think of something. Etro won’t just let him go quietly. He’s her champion, and she adores him.”

 

“I can imagine,” Ardyn murmurs. He adores the boy himself, a little. Noctis is easy to love like that. “Fine, fine. Send me back on my way, then. But not at the base in Gralea. Some place closer, if you can manage.”

 

Somnus nods. “I’ll see what I can do. Before you go though, Etro has a Blessing for you. And I’ve one of my own… if you want it.” He still looks uncertain.

 

Ardyn rolls his eyes, hands on hips once more. “Precious idiot, if I wanted to hate you, I assure you you would know. Of course I want your blessing. And Etro’s as well, provided she’s not fixing to alight me with Scourge again.”

 

“No. Actually, it’s the opposite.” Somnus raises his hands, cupping them as an orb of softly glowing purple light appears. “The talents of the Scourge, without the Scourge itself. Shadow Walk, Flight, and Creation. All are yours again, brother.”

 

He accepts the orb from Somnus. In his hand it feels solid, but it dissolves in his hand like liquid, leaving behind a sensation not unlike being dipped in water. “That does bear the question of how these things will come out, if there is no Scourge behind it. Creation, especially, given that was my primary method for creating daemons.”

 

Somnus shrugs, helpless. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you.”

 

“Well, don’t fret on it. I’ll find out sooner rather than later, and let that be that. Now what of  _ your  _ blessing to me?”

 

To his surprise, Somnus’ cheeks grow red, and his gaze skitters along the ground. “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

 

Curiosity has Ardyn by the throat, but he tempers it back, and arranges his expression into something flat and uncaring. “I shall not. Now, what is your blessing?”

 

Somnus eyes him like he’s not quite believing that, but he’s never been able not to trust Ardyn (years beneath Bahamut notwithstanding) and he does so again, coming to kneel by Ardyn’s bad leg, reaching out a warm hand to gently pat at the hip. His fingertips glow the faintest shade of green-yellow.

 

“Pain, pain, go away…”

 

Ardyn just barely manages to hold back the snort that wants to come. Of course Somnus would choose something so childish to cast his first healing spell with.

 

It becomes much less funny a second later when he feels the tender hip and always-painful leg unknot itself like a vine from a trellis, the lack of pressure on that side sudden and almost alarming. When Somnus pulls back and glances up at him, apprehensive, he tests the leg, carefully at first, and then less cautiously, slamming his heel to the ground.

 

Nothing. No pain, no flare-up, no tightness at the hip, no refusal to bend. His left leg is as whole and unmarred as his right. 

 

“Well now,” he says softly, unable to keep his emotions off his face. “Who taught you that trick?”

 

Somnus is looking him in the eye, for all that his face has gone horribly red. “I did. After… after Angelgard, I kept thinking… h-how you looked there, toward the end. Like I’d done worse than gut you and leave you by the wayside. I thought, ‘if I can heal him, maybe Bahamut will let him come back. Maybe we can be a family again’. So I asked Salvia to show me how to heal, and I pretty much spent twenty years learning how to do it. But then the war kicked up, and by the time that was over you were already gone, and when you came back I was too old to go out and do it myself.”

 

“Your original apology, then?”

 

“Yeah. I didn’t expect it to fix everything between us. I figured you’d reject it or you’d take it and push me away. But I thought I could at least offer it. Though… that wound has gotten worse since I saw it all those years ago.”

 

“Indeed.” His original issue with the leg had left him mobile, if a bit slower. By the time his first hundred years of immortal life had come to an end however, he had well and truly destroyed his chance of using the leg to walk anymore. The management and pain thresholds had taken another two hundred years to grasp and learn. “Careless rage tends to blind one to their body and its limits. The leg was mangled by the time I calmed down enough to care.”

 

Somnus sighs, shaking his head. “Reckless brother.”

 

“Foolish brother.”

 

“Yeah, well, don’t go doing it again, okay? I might not be able to fix it, after this. Whatever you do to this body will carry you until your death again - and if you go, Noctis goes with you.”

 

Ardyn’s eyebrows raise. “Does he, now.”

 

“Bound together, brother. In life, in death, and in all states between. Treat yourself as kindly as you would treat him, or vise versa. Whatever it takes.”

 

_ Far likelier I shall run us both into the bedrock of the world. Hells below, I’m going to have to be the responsible one in this equation, aren’t I? _

 

He’ll have to, surely, because if what Somnus has told him is any indication, Noctis isn’t looking out for himself. And Ardyn knows Somnus and himself enough to know Noctis - the boy will be wanting to protect everyone and throw himself in front of every threat in the meanwhile. “I don’t suppose my healing talents are returned to me?”

 

“They are. Everything you had prior to the Scourge, you have again. Though the sanity seems questionable.”

 

“Rude. Well then, I shall take my insane self to the gates out.”

 

Somnus hugs him again. Ardyn lets himself bask in this one, because there’s no telling how long it’ll be until he has this again. The wounds of the past still hurt, if he thinks on it too long. But he’s chosen to push past what happened, and focus on the task before him. Later, they can work on fixing themselves and their relationship a bit more.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Hmm. Don’t thank me yet, Somnus. That boy is hell, when he wants to be.”

 

“I know,” Somnus grins up at him, cheeky as the light envelopes them both. “He gets it from you.”

 

“Rude!”

 

Somnus’ laughter is the last thing he hears, ringing out and echoing around him as he falls.

  
  


**_0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0_ **

  
  


He wakes on the shores of the Slough, in a tall field of grass. Around him, he can hear the snuffling of the Catoblepas, the low grumble of Garula herds, and excited yips and calling howls of Sabertusks. For a time he remains there, staring up at a blue sky he never thought he’d see again. The warmth of the sun he banished behind clouds of black feels pleasant on his skin, and for the first time in a very long while he doesn’t feel irritated with everything and anything around him. It’s certainly a nice change in pace.

 

After a few more moments he sighs and sits up, finding himself in the same clothes he died in. His hat is sitting on a rock a few feet away. 

 

“Well,” he muses aloud. “Best get to it, then.” 

 

Pushing to his feet is interesting, because for all that his left side still twinges horribly, it isn’t nearly as painful as before. His balance still isn’t the greatest, the knee still terribly weak, and he can’t quite bend it as far out as he can his right side, but he can  _ use it  _ now, at least. Still, he’ll be keeping the wing design of his outfit for balance, if nothing else. 

 

He finds the road not far from where he woke, and it takes no time to spot his beloved car parked neatly off to the side, still in one piece, key in the ignition like it was waiting for him. He sighs happily when he gets inside, and she starts up without issue. With a fond pat on her dashboard, he turns her around and heads for Insomnia, turning the radio on for the first time in a very long while and humming along to some cheery jingle or another as he goes.

 

The countryside is beautiful, umarred by death and destruction, the plague of daemons that he grew so used to a far off nightmare from now. There are no bodies at the borders of a town once cast into ruins; the people are alive and walking around, laughing and talking, not even a thought spared for ten years down the line, when Ardyn casts them all into darkness, and daemons rip them apart or turn them into one of their own.

 

He’s still humming beneath his breath when he finds a parking spot outside the gates leading to the Citadel - closed for today, given it’s a weekend, no surprise there. He walks across the street to a small cafe, and orders himself a coffee and danish, picking up a newspaper while he’s at it. 

 

That’s when he finds it.

 

**_Kingsglaive Trials now open! Welcome any and all able-bodied persons willing to fight for Hearth and Home! (Inquire at PR Office at Second and Sky Ave.)_ **

 

He chews his morsel slowly, eyeing the finer print down at the bottom. It’s been a fair bit since the Kingsglaive Trials were last opened, if he’s recalling correctly. Mainly once used as a private assassination force by Mors and his predecessors, the Kingsglaive seem to swing between heavy hitters and knives in the night at any given point. The numbers have been maintained rather steadily over the years, given the saying ‘once a Glaive, always a Glaive’ is quite literal - the only way Kingsglaive let go of one of their own is loss of magic or death, and given one usually follows the other, there is only one true way out.

 

He’s willing to bet no insignificant amount of gil this latest recruitment has to do with Noctis. Whether caused by him or revolving around him, Ardyn can’t yet say. But there’s something about the sheer lack of list of requirements - and about the “all able-bodied persons” line that makes him think Regis is looking for additional shields for Noctis.

 

Or perhaps, for a series of leashes.

 

He finishes danish and coffee, paying for both with a hearty tip on top, and tucks the paper into the jacket pocket of his coat. It seems getting to Noctis might not be so hard after all - and if what Somnus had said is still holding true, Noctis Lucis Caelum is going to need the best shadow he can find to keep him out of trouble.

 

He whistles as he walks to the PR Office, and when he emerges fifteen minutes later, it’s with the smallest of grins and an application in hand.

 

_ For hearth and home,  _ he thinks with no small amount of irony, and points himself towards the nearest renters association for a place to stay until he can get his foot in the door of this whole shitshow.  _ More like for Prince and ruination. Goodness, this is going to be  _ **_fun._ **


	6. I can't escape these shadows painted dark, and we know they can't be very far (our fate is beckoning)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Citadel closes ranks on the Prince.

It’s quiet. Enough so that Noctis can hear the training drills going on in the yards below - the bellow of Drautos’ orders, the scurry and scuffle of feet across dirt, of practice swords striking dummies. He can hear it better if he turns to face the window, but he doesn’t really want to do that right now. Not when it’s so quiet, as if the very world itself is poised on the edge of a knife, ready to fall.

 

It should be louder, in the wake of a third retelling of the situation. Especially given how volatile Ignis is where it concerns Noctis’ safety and comfort - he’s been expecting an explosion ever since Cor told them about the fall of Insomnia, when Prompto’s eyes had gone seemingly too wide for his head for a moment, and Ignis had gone a color of white Noctis had only ever witnessed on him in death. 

 

But there’s been nothing. The story is over and done, Prompto has hastily excused himself, eyes wet with tears and face pinched and pale, a hand over his mouth as he’d darted out, closing the door securely behind him, but still there has been no sound from Ignis.

 

Noctis hasn’t heard banging from the other room, or explosions, or the pounding of fists up against walls, either. It’s odd - Prompto is acting like he should - but Gladio and Ignis are calm. Perhaps too calm.

 

Although, if he’s honest with himself, Prompto isn’t even acting like he should. He  _ should  _ want to turn tail and run as far away from Noctis as he possibly can, after this. Because he’s only sixteen, because the most serious thing he can recall ever talking to Prom about was girls, and because something this big should scare the shit out of him. Should make him want to avoid the Crown Prince of Lucis forever.

 

Ignis lifts his head at last. Noctis tenses, readying for the explosion at last.

 

“I left him?” he whispers instead, and  _ oh,  _ now Noctis sees why there hasn’t been a blow of temper yet. And perhaps, why Gladio hasn’t come raging through the walls.

 

Loyalty has always been a household standard for these two. They’ve been raised to stand by Noctis, always, and to hear that their older selves stood back and let him walk up the steps to his death alone--

 

Well. It doesn’t take a blind man to see why Ignis might be so quiet. 

 

“I...walked away from you?” Ignis asks Noctis, and his eyes are bright, his voice cracking around the edges. “I let you go, just like that? Did I truly do that, Noctis?”

 

He looks like he’s been gutted. Like he desperately wants to beg Noctis to say that it’s a lie, that Noctis didn’t stand on those steps and bow to his friends and silently beg  _ please please say something, stop me, don’t let me do this alone,  _ hope that they heard what he meant in those last words he gave them, only for them to fall through in the end. 

 

But Noctis can’t spare Ignis, this time. 

 

“It’s true.”

 

Ignis makes a sound like he’s dying, a wild, keening moan that creeps out of the back of his throat, pressing a hand to his mouth as he bows his head, shoulders hunched as if waiting for divine punishment to strike him down. As if it’s really  _ his  _ fault.

 

Noctis feels like he should say something, so he does.

 

“Iggy… you guys bought me time, y’know. You held back the daemons, and I--”

 

Ignis’ entire body locks up. The keening stops. The world freezes as slowly,  Ignis cranes his head to look up at Noctis. “Held back the daemons?” he whispers. “Is that truly what we did, Noctis?”

 

Noctis goes to say  _ yeah, of course,  _ only for the words to jam in his throat at the look in Ignis’ eyes.

 

Ignis has always had a lethal edge to him - part of it is his bloodline, given the Scientia are assassins. But the rest is the duty of the Hand position, the one who encapsulates the violence and power given to the King by the common people, the one who strikes long before the King is ever made aware. 

 

But now? On his knees, looking up at Noctis like a man on the verge of insanity, his eyes seem to glow with a rage so deep and incandescent it makes every fiber of Noctis’ being shiver. He’s stepped on a landmine, he registers faintly, leaning back against the couch. A very big one. His first, and if Ignis’ temper is anything to go by, likely to be his last.

 

“Is that  _ truly  _ what we were doing, Noctis?” Ignis asks, and his grief is gone now, his tone almost mockingly cruel. “Or instead, were we perhaps fulfilling our prophecy of cowardice by turning our backs to you in those final moments?”

 

Noctis swallows as Ignis stands, like some great heron of prey unfolding itself. “Your father asked us to see you to Altissia for the wedding. In the wake of Lady Lunafreya’s untimely demise, our first priority should have been  _ to you.  _ Not to I, or even to our own grief, though I dare say it would have torn us asunder. But it would have been far less kind to  _ you,  _ who were so closely intertwined with the Lady. We should have stood by you in that grief, allowed you to mourn, and then  _ carefully  _ chosen our paths.”

 

Here Ignis’ voice begins to steadily raise, and Noctis almost feels  _ threatened.  _ “Instead we stand with our thumbs up our asses, and I allow Gladiolus to disrespect you, tear you down until you have no desire to do anything but go on what will amount to a one-man crusade through the heart of enemy territory despite lacking anything we can use to fight the Empire, and at the end of ten years I turn my back on the man I have been sworn to protect like one of the finest breeds of bastardized coward Eos has ever seen!”

 

There’s so much rage in him. This Ignis before him could give his older self a run for his money. 

 

“So,” Ignis snarls, and steps closer. “ _ Do not  _ try to placate me with  _ false pretenses,  _ Noctis. I know full well we did not stand on those steps to  _ buy you time.  _ We stood there because we could not bear to come to terms with the fact that we would let you walk up those steps  _ alone  _ to face your ancestors. Even if it was your own personal wish, we should have fought you. We should have said  _ something.” _

 

His knuckles are white, and he’s shaking hard. But he’s also standing there like he’s come up from the pits of Hell itself, ready to fight for Noctis’ honor again, and Six help him, Noctis feels his heart rise up in his throat. He’s always loved his friends, always cherished them, but right now he feels it far more keenly than he ever did in the past. 

 

“I’m not worth so much anger, Specs. It’s done, it’s over, it’s--”

 

“Marshal,” Ignis interrupts. “I request a retaking of my oaths.”

 

Noctis chokes. “You c--”

 

“Sir?”

 

He turns his head. He never even heard the door open, but Prompto’s standing there, fists bunched at his side. There’s a blazing look of determination in his green eyes that Noctis would recognize in a heartbeat. He knows what Prompto is going to say even before he says it.

 

“I would request an application to join the Crownsguard. Noctis’ personal Crownsguard.”

 

“You can’t!” Noctis yells, horrified, and shoots to his feet. “Prom, your career--”

 

“I can always take photos.” Prompto’s gaze is firm. “You said it yourself, I took pictures of us on the road, right? And I got better over time. I can do it again. But I’m not leaving you alone. Not… not after all that. I won’t be a coward a second time.”

 

“You weren’t--”

 

“I’ll train you,” Ignis says. “Knives and spears. Gladiolus can train you for swords, assuming the Marshal doesn’t get there first.”

 

Cor speaks. “He’s got combat training in guns as well. Apparently he’s a natural, so we’ll be capitalizing on that first. I’ll have Gladio run him through stamina exercises alongside the swords.”

 

_ “Absolutely not.” _

 

They all look over at Noctis, who stands there, hands balled into fists. “You’d rather train him yourself? Or have you something you’d see instead, Highness?”

 

“Neither! I won’t allow you to ruin your own future for this, Prom.” He looks at his friend beseechingly. “You’ve sacrificed enough. You don’t need to go this far.”

 

“‘Allow me’?” Prompto scoffs. “Buddy, good luck keeping me away from you. This is happening whether you want it to or not.” He crosses his own arms.

 

“I could order it. Bar you from the Citadel.”

 

“You really think anyone’s gonna listen to that?”

 

“They would, if I tell them you’re a threat to the Crown.”

 

“Disqualified,” Ignis says smoothly. “I would argue him as a non-threat.”

 

“As would I,” Cor adds grimly. “Regis knows he isn’t a threat either. Your words would only carry weight with the wrong sorts of people, and we all know how you feel about  _ them.” _

 

Prompto’s look softens. “Noct, face it. You’re gonna have to kill me if you want me to stay down. And we both know you don’t have the kinds of guts it takes to put a blade to my throat or a gun to my head and pull the trigger. I’m sticking with you until the end, whether you want it or not. Best get used to it.”

 

Noctis shakes his head slowly, but he isn’t given an opportunity to argue again before the door separating the rooms opens and Gladio stalks out, red-eyed and furious.

 

“You little fucking  _ idiot,”  _ he spits, and then scoops Noctis up in a hug that only an Amicitia can give. Noctis squirms, but it’s a futile effort, and after a minute he settles down with a huff. Gladio sits them back on the couch, and does not let go of Noctis for a single moment.

 

“Ah, Gladio,” Ignis welcomes. “We were just discussing training Prompto. Would you be amenable to taking him under your wing and getting him trained up with stamina exercises and perhaps some of the heavier swords?”

 

“You standing by Noct, then?” Gladio demands gruffly, and Prompto nods. “Good. Would have broken your legs if you’d tried to go anywhere else. Goes for the rest of you too - anyone tries to change their mind, I’ll break their fuckin’ legs.”

 

“Gladiolus,” Clarus calls, exasperated. “Breaking people’s legs will not solve this issue.”

 

“No, but it’ll sure as fuck make them wish they hadn’t turned away from their  _ King.” _

 

“So much for the fickle faith of the Amicitia line,” Noctis mutters dourly. “I almost miss the bitching about how lazy I am.”

 

Gladio’s grip on him tightens wordlessly. Clarus shakes his head, and goes to sit by Cor.

 

“Fickle faith no longer has any place on this table,” he says. “Nor do false idols or thoughts about what a king  _ should  _ or  _ should not  _ be. And for the record, Noctis Lucis Caelum, you are as human as I or any other. Were it your father sitting where you sit now, I assure you, we’d be doing the exact same thing they all are.”

 

“Ruining their lives for the sake of a dead King?”

 

“No. Cutting him off from ruining his  _ own  _ life by barreling into the fray before he’s ready.” Clarus meets his gaze head on then, and there’s a  _ challenge  _ behind his eyes -  _ tell me I’m wrong, tell me you’re not rushing towards your own demise with your actions -  _ but Noctis can’t find the words to tell him he’s wrong. So he drops his own gaze, burying his face in Gladio’s thick shoulder. 

 

He’s tired, suddenly. 

 

“So, a recap,” Cor says. “Gladiolus and Ignis will undergo additional training for their stations. Prompto will begin his training for the Crownsguard, unofficially.” Prompto makes an inquisitive noise. “If it becomes official, you’ll be thrown headfirst into the trials. Barely any time to prepare. We want to make it so there are no questions that you’re worthy to stand by the Prince’s side. So we’re cheating a little. There’s no rule against it - it’s more of a pride thing.”

 

“Fuck that,” Gladio grumbles. “Pride gets guys killed. You cheat to your tiny heart’s content, Prom. We’ll back you a hundred percent.”

 

“Indeed.” Noctis gets the feeling that if anyone tries to accuse Prompto of  _ cheating,  _ they’re going to get one of Ignis’ daggers jabbed pointy end first into their  _ ass. _

 

If anything, those thoughts only make him feel worse. Because it reminds him of what  _ was,  _ the men that are no longer here by his side, the brothers that swore to walk to the end with him, and did that. Men that were flawed, imperfect, and tired. 

 

_ Can you really do that again? Put yourself in their hands, and trust that they will keep you this time? _

 

Fuck. He should say something. He needs to say something before they go and get themselves killed--

 

“Noct?” Prompto says, and Noctis opens his eyes again and turns his head just enough to see Prompto. “You’re not alone anymore, you know. You don’t have to bear this by yourself. We’re going to get better for you, we’re going to be  _ there  _ this time. Okay?”

 

He should say something. But what is there to say, when they’ve already made up their minds? When arguing won’t solve anything, and his words are going to be brushed aside one way or another?

 

_ Has anything truly changed? _

 

Ignis trying to feed him vegetables, even at the last dinner. Gladio gruffly ordering him to say what he needs to say without stammering over it. Prompto telling him what they’ll do to change the world when it’s all over, a promise he’ll never be able to keep and they both know it.

 

Now Ignis sits, ready to get on knees before him before the Crystal and offer his blade anew, forged in different, heavier oaths. Now Gladio holds him like he’s the most fragile thing, while vowing to train Prompto and become a worthy Shield. And Prompto, ready to charge headfirst into the rush of battle to stand beside Noctis again.

 

_ Has anything truly changed? _

 

“You’re going to die.” He takes in a breath, and looks at them all, and for just a moment he feels as he did standing there at the edge of the world, Kings of Yore ready to take his life. “He won’t be merciful about it, either. When he comes, he’s going to charge through whatever you have prepared, break you until you wish you were dead. Take it from someone who fought him. If you do this, and you change your mind later--”

 

“We won’t,” Ignis says, and he sounds too calm. Far too calm. “If he comes for us, we will fight him until we can no longer stand. We will fight until our last breath, Highness.”

 

“And that’s fine to you?”

 

“You are our  _ King,”  _ Ignis hisses, and those green eyes glint with a fire unmatched. “And you have walked this path of chaos and carnage, and come out of it with the decision to change  _ our  _ fates rather than your own. Does that not seem worthy of receiving loyalty to you?”

 

“There’s no point in wasting lives that could be better spent,” Noctis says, coming at it from a different angle. “You were always going on about resources and frugality, Specs. This is the same thing. If you die, how will we replace you?”

 

“How will we replace  _ you?!”  _ Gladio grabs his chin, brings his head around to look at him. “A King is the heart of the kingdom, Noctis. If His Majesty falls, we still got you. But if you fall? We ain’t got  _ nobody,  _ and that’s the worst fate for someone like us to suffer. We need you, Noctis, but  more to the point you fucking deserve this! Don’t you get that?”

 

He gives Noctis a little shake to emphasis it.

 

“I just don’t get why you’re so eager to die.”

 

“We won’t die, then,” Prompto says. “You beat him before. We can beat him again.”

 

“And if what you’ve told us is any indication,” Cor adds his voice in. “Originally he destroyed Insomnia and killed the people he did to bait you into becoming the True King he desired to bring about his death. If he has his memories like you do, he likely won’t bother with the carnage this time. He’ll come straight for the finale.”

 

“Another reason to allow us at your side,” Clarus picks up. “Assuming he does march for you immediately, and you combat him and win, that still leaves you left to pick up the pieces in this timeline. You will no longer have a driving goal, Noctis. You will simply be a Prince, waiting for your father to hand you the crown so that you may begin your reign. And given the way you handle yourself, can you honestly say you wouldn’t be marked as mad, or a tyrant, within a few short months?”

 

“So it’s a question of my stability, and how to keep me on a leash, then.”

 

“It is a question of how best to serve you, Highness,” Clarus says, far too knowing. “And sometimes the best way to serve is to put up roadblocks and refuse to let the crown wander far from the nest until they’re ready. We’re not doing this out of cruelty.”

 

And that’s the worst part. He knows they’re not - they’re doing it because they love him, so much it hurts them, and they want to see him happy and safe. But it still picks at something in him, some deep-seated need to be  _ in control  _ of his world, and a fear that if he lets them do this, they will want to intrude further still, until he has no control over  _ anything. _

 

Knowledge of these men tells him the thought is ridiculous. But that doesn’t stop the paranoia from biting. In the end, the only way to deal with it is not to think about the  _ what if,  _ and just take a blind leap of faith.

 

“Fine.” Noctis waves a hand. “Do what you will. But if this comes back to bite,  _ do  _ be kind enough to recall that I warned you.”

 

“Consider us duly warned,  Highness,” Clarus says. 

  
  


0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

  
  


Nyx Ulric has not survived the fall of Galahd and the war with Niflheim as long as he has because of luck, despite what some might think. And that’s true of surviving in the Kingsglaive in general - you don’t stay a Glaive long acting foolishly, or without learning a few things. Things like which way the wind is blowing, or when something is  _ up. _

 

And right now, Nyx is willing to bet no small amount of his pay that something is most certainly  _ up. _

 

Most of it, from what Nyx is able to get a read on, revolves around their Prince. Always a delicate figure in the eyes of most Glaives, now he walks the hallways like a King in his own realm. He speaks with a voice that expects to be obeyed, and his eyes cut through people like he’s not actually seeing  _ them  _ so much as he is their weight, their courage, their spirit.

 

Nyx was there, that day when the Prince came charging out of the training rooms. He saw the rooms left behind. He saw Drautos’ face. 

 

Nyx Ulric has not survived as much as he has being a fool. Whatever’s going on has got Drautos on the fence - he’s approaching the Prince now like he would an unknown, and the baby Glaives are following his lead. The older Glaives, like Nyx, are watching, trying to work out the  _ what  _ before they go asking the  _ how.  _ Nyx doubts the Prince is suddenly a traitor of any kind, not with the way the King and his Shield and the Marshall act around the kid. There are ears and eyes all over the damn place, and it didn’t take long to get around that both the older men have sworn their swords to the Prince, and the Crown Prince was seen taking off like a bat out of hell towards the throne room a few days ago when the King sent the Citadel shaking from his anger.

 

Add in to the fact that that was the day Captain Drautos came back sporting a new bruise on his temple - and what a bruise it was - and it doesn’t take much to start piecing things together. 

 

Nyx is a little more impulsive than some of the other Glaives, however, so when they choose to sit back and do nothing, Nyx sets about getting himself set on patrol duty. 

 

“Have you lost the last marble in that empty head of yours?” Libertus demands when he hears what Nyx is setting out to do. “Listen, whatever it is--”

 

“Whatever it  _ is,  _ Libs, it’s important. You can’t tell me it’s become the regular thing for teenagers to suddenly flip a switch and start acting like Kings instead of Princes.” He pulls his uniform on, ensuring everything is straight and presentable and he isn’t breaking regulation in any way. Drautos usually asks for volunteers in patrol work first before he starts assigning those who decided to be a little lackluster in their assignments, and Nyx doesn’t usually get assigned so long as he doesn’t go breaking any rules or pissing Drautos off too much.

 

If he asks nicely, he’s sure Drautos will be surprised enough to say yes, and then he can finally start working on getting eyes on their Prince, and finding out the  _ what.  _ Tredd might be betting him a traitor, but Nyx is willing to bet otherwise.

 

Libertus shakes his head. “You’re a damned fool, Nyx, and I curse ever meeting you sometimes.”

 

Nyx scoffs. “You do not.”

 

“You’re right, I don’t, but sometimes I wish I could.”

 

“I’ll be fine. Drautos isn’t going to take my head for wanting patrol duty for a bit.”

 

“Ain’t Drautos I’m worried about.” 

 

Nyx pauses. “You think the Prince--?”

 

“I don’t  _ know,  _ Nyx. But somethin’ ain’t right with that kid. I just don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire and leaving us with yet another brother to bury.”

 

Nyx’ breath catches. “Libs.”

 

“Well, go on then, go do your spying, hero. Leave the rest of us--”

 

Nyx catches him in a hug before he gets any further. His grip is tight, just shy of bruising, but Libertus returns it fiercely.

 

“If the Imperials couldn’t bring me down, the hell makes you think one lone Prince is going to, huh? Haven’t I told you, I’m the hero. You know what that means, right? Plot armor!”

 

He gets smacked for that, and it dissolves into a bit of a friendly wrestle from that. But it takes no time for Libertus to sober again, ever the worrywart. 

 

“I mean it hero, be  _ careful.  _ The King ain’t a man to blink twice about striking down anyone what hurts his son.”

 

“Well then,” Nyx says lightly, reaching for his gloves last. “It’s a good thing I’m not planning on hurting him.”

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

  
  


“I don’t suppose any of you dunderheads would be willing to put yourselves on patrol duty.”

 

That’s his cue. Nyx steps forward. “Sir.”

 

“Ulric.”

 

Drautos is no more the fool than Nyx himself; his narrow-eyed look tells Nyx right out he knows what Nyx is aiming for. 

 

“Denied.”

 

“With all due respect, sir, why?”

 

“You know why. And that goes for the rest of you as well.”

 

His gaze is cold enough to match the Glacian in her fury. “The events behind the Prince’s recent decisions and changes are none of your business, and you will keep your noses  _ out  _ of it, unless you’d prefer to be stripped of rank and sent back home in disgrace.”

 

He opens his mouth, perhaps to further threaten punishment, only to be interrupted by a new voice.

 

“A bit harsh, considering they’re merely curious. Honestly Captain, I expected better of you.”

 

Nyx manages to lock the urge to jump down to a mere twitch of his hands instead, at the sight of Noctis standing there, hands in pockets.

 

“Highness,” Drautos bows his head. “Does the King require something?”

 

Nyx is watching this time, and is close enough to see the slow rise of one of the Prince’s brows, and the half-twitch of his lips in amusement. “He asked me to inform you I’m to train with your Glaives until further notice. This… situation… requires me at the strongest I can get in the fastest amount of time.”

 

“So he throws you to me.”

 

“Technically, to you and your men. But yes.”

 

Drautos sighs, heavy and weary. “And I suppose if I go ask the King about this--”

 

Noctis grins, and there’s a measure of smugness there. “He’ll ask why you think it’s--”

 

“A bad idea,” Drautos finishes, waving the rest of the words away. “Yes, very well, damn him. In that case, Ulric, I suppose you’re getting your wish.” He looks Noctis up and down, and there’s no longer any measure of respect to his gaze - he looks at Noctis like he looks at one of them, and Noctis--

 

Noctis settles back into a disturbing parade rest stance, a faint smile on his lips.

 

“Ulric, Khara, Furia, you’ll be with Noctis on patrol. The rest of you, dismissed.” The words are scarcely gone from his mouth before he’s turning heel and marching off in the direction of the King’s chambers, probably to grill Regis about his expectations.

 

“What, why’s the Prince--” Tredd starts.

 

“New meat,” Nyx drawls, “Or well. Close to.”

 

“Probably figures if you’re going to go through the trouble of trying to beat me up, you should at least show me around first,” Noctis teases, a gleam of amusement to his gaze.

 

“Try?” Nyx asks. “Oh no, we’ll definitely be beating you up.”

 

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise when Noctis bares his teeth in a disturbingly cat-like grin. The coeurls of Galahd would smile like that sometimes when they were hunting, and half of the stone relieves they have had them doing it. 

 

“You can try, Ulric,” he says, light as a feather, and Nyx feels that familiar thrum of danger at the base of his spine, moving up like a lightning bolt traversing a rod.  

 

Because that? That’s a  _ challenge.  _

 

He lets his own smirk out, and thinks for the first time this whole thing started that maybe Libertus had the right idea. “On your mark then, Highness.”


End file.
